


From Grit to Pearl

by BlueSimplicity



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Natasha Romanov, BAMF Rebecca Barnes Proctor, BAMF Sam Wilson, BAMF Steve Rogers, Body Horror, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes-centric, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America: The First Avenger Compliant, Character Death, Hydra (Marvel), Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M, Morally Grey Peggy Carter, Mutual Pining, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, No seriously - this dog STINKS, POV Multiple, Red Room (Marvel), Related to Red Room - But ONLY Implied, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Smelliest dog in the world, eventual stucky - Freeform, mentions of torture, not steve or bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 38
Words: 160,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27294283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSimplicity/pseuds/BlueSimplicity
Summary: He does not have a name.He has been called many things over the years; a weapon, a ghost, HYDRA’s Fist, the Soldier, and from what they have told him his work has shaped the century.But he does not have a name. His name, like so many other things, has been taken from him, stolen.Forgotten.Until the day it is not, and remembering, he breaks free, killing his handler and making his escape in a desperate bid for freedom.Frightened, lost and hurt, he seeks out the last person in the world he can trust, his baby sister, now an almost eighty-year-old widow, somehow knowing she is the only one who can help him.It is a difficult journey, one filled with pain, tears, and things that should not be possible. But also with recovery and redemption, rebirth and miracles, family and hope.This story is a love letter between Bucky and his sister Rebecca, the world, and eventually his childhood best friend, Steve Rogers, the boy he once loved. But ultimately, it is the love letter Bucky writes to himself, as he reclaims who he once was, discovers who he is now, builds a new life for himself and realizes he might, just might, be as strong, as beautiful, as precious as a pearl.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes & Rebecca Barnes Proctor, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 3605
Kudos: 646





	1. Prologue - The Asset

**Author's Note:**

> So if you’ve read any of my other fics (and thank you so much if you have) then you know Bucky recovering stories are my jam. This one is no different, and this time around it’s a mishmash of ideas pulled from the MCU, the comics and anything else my brain decided to throw at me. It’s a bit dark at points, but it is a recovery fic and has a very happy ending. I promise. This story is also complete at this point, and I will be posting chapters, some long and others short, twice a week 
> 
> This story would not be what it is if not for my amazing beta Merry_rf. Merry is the one who tells me 'Yeah, no, you might want to change this so it’s clearer' and 'This is the science behind what you’re trying to do here', while also catching my spelling mistakes, comma abuse and pointing out ways to make my writing better. They also always do it with kindness, generosity and a lot of humor. Seriously, Merry_rf is the ultimate Fairy God-Beta, using their magic touch to transform anything I write from a plain housedress into a ballgown, and if you enjoy this story, it’s because of their hard work. I hope you know I absolutely adore you Merry, and can never, ever thank you enough. Not only for betaing this, but for your friendship and just being you.
> 
> That said, while this story has a happy ending (I promise), and quite a bit of eventual silliness, it does deal with some dark topics. I have tried to tag for everything, but if there’s something I missed, please let me know so I can add it. 
> 
> Lastly, comments and kudos give me life, are the cookies of my soul, and each and every one is GREATLY appreciated. However, PLEASE NOTE, with the world the way it is right now, the comment section is one of my safe spaces, and I am NOT looking for concrit or negative feedback at this time. 
> 
> OK then, enough from me. I had a lot of fun writing From Grit to Pearl, and I hope you have just as much fun reading it. Thank you so much for giving this story a chance. Let’s get on with it, shall we? 
> 
> =) =) =)

**The Asset**

_This is the first thing it knows:_

It does not have a name. It has been called many things; the Asset, the Fist of HYDRA, the Soldier (this last one most commonly of all), but it does not have a name. Names are for humans, people, and it is not one.

So it does not have a name.

_This is the second thing it knows:_

It is not human. It is a weapon. A creation of flesh and blood and metal, the perfect instrument. It has no fear, and does not react to pain. It can hunt and stalk and adapt. Endure when others would collapse. Move through rooms, streets, cities, nations, decades without leaving a trace.

_This is the third thing it knows:_

It must obey the Handler. That is what it is programmed to do. Obey, and if necessary, protect the Handler.

The Handler instructs and commands. Identifies the target, what needs to be done, and the timeframe. Provides the intel, weaponry and camouflage, should it be necessary.

If it does well, and the Hander is pleased, it will be given sustenance, praise, its wounds tended to before it is allowed to sleep.

If it does not, then come the Words, and after the Words, the Chair, and then…

And then…

It does not matter. It has learned to obey the Handler, so much so that it is not something it ever has to learn again, it is simply something it knows, does, _is_. The Handler is the face of HYDRA, and HYDRA wants peace, order, not just for it, but for the entire world. It understands peace, or at least the desire for it.

If it were to want anything, which it does not, it would be for a peace that is endless, dark and deep.

So it obeys the Handler.

_This is the fourth thing it knows:_

It was nothing before and it is perfect now. A perfect weapon, a perfect tool, a perfect machine. It accepts this without question. It was nothing then and it is still nothing, but now it is a perfect nothing. It is intelligent, stealthy, cunning and efficient, but it has no wants, no desires, no needs. It cannot be swayed by emotion, and is immune to begging, pleading, bargaining, screams. It exists purely to serve, and it is that service that has elevated it above all others, except for the Handler. If the nothingness is the cost of that perfection, the price it has to pay, then it does not need the Handler, or the technicians, or the men who have trained it to tell it so.

But then again, it is their creation, so perhaps they have a right to their pride. Any who doubt or question their wisdom will eventually be shown the errors in their judgment anyway.

It is what it was created for after all.

_This is another thing it knows:_

It is very, very good at killing. By bullet or blade, poison or pressure. It can make it look like an accident or murder, or vanish entirely if it has been told to dispose of the body. A car crash, a stroke, a domestic dispute, an overdose, it has done it all, without leaving a single trace. Unless the Handler has instructed it otherwise, and then it will leave a perfectly constructed trail of breadcrumbs, seeds whose subsequent sprouts will sow doubt, confusion, chaos and unrest. Nations, regimes, leaders and their false promises have all crumbled like a house of cards, because it knew where and when to strike, and how to best serve the Handler.

It has shaped the century, or so it has been told, and all for the greater good. Peace, for it, for the world, will be its reward.

So it continues to obey the Handler. It is the only thing it has ever known, was created for, and it is not its place to question or doubt. It has always been, and it will always be, and only a fool questions such things. And if it has ever been anything aside from what it currently is, it is not a fool.

So, it will obey.

_(This is the last thing it knows:_

_Somewhere deep in its heart, deeper than the programming, the Words, the Handler and even the Chair can reach, is the knowledge that all of the things **he** knows are lies.)_


	2. 1998 - The Asset

**1998**

**The Asset**

“So tell me boy, what did you think of tonight’s performance?”

The Soldier turned at the sound of Karpov’s voice. The visual sweep he had been conducting was not complete, but the Handler had spoken, and it did not ignore the Handler. He turned, but said nothing, standing with his hands crossed in front of him and head lowered. He was to never speak directly to the Handler, unless it was in regard to a mission, or there would be punishment. While this mission was strange, and the longest one he had ever been assigned, _(although he didn’t know how he knew that)_ , it was also the easiest one, _(he didn’t know how he knew that either)._ There were no beatings, no torture, no tests of his endurance. And most importantly, no Chair. That was the best thing about this mission, and he did not want to risk doing anything that would displease the Handler and change that.

“What? No opinions on the matter?” Karpov did not wait for a response, knowing there would not be one, and simply went on, “no, of course not. Now come away from that window, and kneel, here, in front of me.” He pointed at the floor by the couch where he was comfortably ensconced beneath an afghan with a gnarled finger. “You’ve already done three sweeps of the grounds, and while I appreciate your dedication to your duty, I’m too old to have this conversation with you standing there like that. I’ll get a crick in my neck if I have to keep looking up at you.”

Once kneeling as instructed, hands folded neatly in his lap and head again lowered, the Soldier did not need to look up to know he was being observed, studied. For reasons unfathomable to him, Karpov seemed to spend a lot of time studying him, and it was not his place to question why.

“Look at me,” Karpov ordered, reaching out to cup the Soldier’s chin in his hand. The Soldier offered no resistance; it was an order, and so he had to obey. After another long moment of intense scrutiny beneath Karpov’s sharp gaze, while his face was twisted back and forth, the Handler clicked his teeth and shook his head.

“You know, I have always respected and admired Armin’s work, the man is a genius after all. But even I had my doubts when he showed me the designs for the Chair.” He would have flinched in fear, in terror at the word. But that was a weakness, and it would only displease the Handler. So he remained kneeling, but said and did nothing. “He was, of course, concerned when they gave you to me, saying that even he could not predict how long the effects would last. You’d been so troublesome in the past. But while he’s a scientist, he was never an artist. And I was the one who first broke you. I told him if you would remember anything, it would be that.” Karpov raised his fingers, forcing the Soldier to lift his head, baring his throat. “Yet here you are, a year later, as blank and as boring as an empty canvas. I have to admit, I miss the way you used to fight back, kicking and biting, snarling at anyone who came near you. Your screams were music to my ears, and no one could make you scream like I could. The prettiest song in the world.” Karpov released his chin to pat his cheek.

“But then again, I am an old man now, and I really don’t have the energy for such things.” He sighed, heavy and slow, as if realizing he would never get the chance to attend the opera again. “Still, if they were going to reward me for a lifetime of service with a bodyguard, you’d think they’d at least give me someone I could talk with about the ballet we just saw. Such a shame. You used to enjoy it too, you know, when we incorporated it into your training. Took to it like a bird to flight. But I suppose you don’t remember that either.”

_(Un. Deux. Trois._

_Un. Deux. Trois._

_Pale wooden floors._

_A metal barre._

_Mirrors on the walls._

_A row of little girls, perfect, precise, delicate and deadly._

_Brown hair. Blonde hair. Red._

_Un. Deux. Trois.)_

He was not being asked a question, so he gave no reply.

“Ah well, such is the way of things I suppose. Progress always comes with a price, but we have served HYDRA well, you and I. We are each other’s reward for that. Now come on, help an old man up the stairs.” Karpov held his hands out for the Soldier to take. “It’s time for me to go to bed.”

_(Un. Deux. Trois._

_Un. Deux. Trois._

_I remember. I remember._

_…I fucking hate you.)_

***

It was bitter. It was brutal. It was agony.

Fragments, sharp as glass, being jammed together at the wrong angles into a single frame, where the frame was his skin. Too many pieces, none of them smooth, and the pictures they painted horrified him, made no sense, terrified him almost as much as the Chair.

_Sun-kissed golden blond hair. The echo of a woman’s laughter. The smell of cordite and burning flesh. A freckled cheek. A hacking cough. Arms reaching upwards, a voiceless plea to be picked up and, he somehow knew, twirled. The buzzing of a bee. A circlet of red, white and blue. The rattling of a train. Baby ballerinas with knives in their hands. A crisp, cold voice, sharp taps, a flash of rubies and diamonds. Fingers of flesh and blood, ten of them, weaving long dark hair into a thick braid._

Pieces, specks, no coherence to any of them, scattering across his floor like flecks of paint, splinters on his hands, his knees, the backs of his eyes.

It was a malfunction, a failure in the programming, unbelievably and endlessly painful.

But, and here was the first irony of the situation, he had been born from pain, endured much worse, and trained to ignore it in order to complete his mission. Pain was weakness, and weakness was punished. He had been forced to learn how to submit to his bones being broken, his back whipped, to sit in the Chair while its crown buzzed to life, in silence. He could endure this as well. The mission was to protect the Handler, _Karpov_ , and it was not complete yet.

The second irony was that the Handler never asked. It was scored upon his bones that the Soldier was never to speak unless it was in response to a direct question, or to issue an order during a mission. It was part of the procedure post-assignment for him to report any malfunctions or problems with the programming, a command he was unable to disobey. But Karpov, for all that he liked to talk, simply never asked. So the Soldier remained quiet, performing his duties as he always had, never once flinching or twitching when another fleck of paint fell from the wall to land at his feet like a raindrop, a tear, a drop of blood.

The third and final, and most ironic aspect of it all _(although he would not be able to identify this until much, much later, when the programming deteriorated enough to allow him to think such things)_ , was in the end, it was ultimately this Handler’s own fault.

Karpov liked to talk. He was an elderly man succumbing to the ravages of time, with no wife or children to keep him company, and the Soldier recognized, bored as well. As he had been part of the Soldier’s creation, he was also confident in his complete control over HYDRA’s Fist. He had no reason not to be, as there was no evidence to the contrary.

Karpov talked, and the Soldier listened, while presenting nothing but a blank façade.

But what he had forgotten, what they had perhaps all forgotten, was the greatest skill their Asset possessed, perhaps had always possessed; how to observe without being observed, listen without appearing to listen, see without being seen. And…

_Learn._

His ability to process every single detail in his environment and turn that into an advantage, make micro-adjustments and correct his course, was the reason he was their deadliest weapon, why he always succeeded when others failed. His creators, the Handlers, all knew that. But knowing did not always mean remembering, nor understanding the full extent of exactly what that meant.

Besides, they had the Words, they had the Chair, they had been shaping the world for nearly sixty years, so what did they have to fear?

So Karpov talked and the Soldier listened, paying attention to what was both being said and not, and _learned._

***

“It will be America next for you, after you are done here,” Karpov told him one afternoon, wearing a wide brimmed hat to shield him from the sun as he carefully clipped roses from his prized bushes, while the Soldier scanned the surroundings for any threats.

“Me, personally, I could never stand the place,” Karpov went on when the Soldier did not respond. “They have never understood patience, or what it means to truly endure. But Armin has done his job and done it well. And the senator has proven his loyalty time and time again. More Russian than American, that one, and I know he will appreciate your value. He already has plans for you, dear boy, and he’s going to be delighted when he finds out who you are. I think it will be good for you too, to go back. It’s been a while since your last mission there, and I think you’ll enjoy seeing what you helped to build.” Karpov paused to drop another rose into the basket at his feet, swat at the bee that was circling near his face. The Soldier, if it could feel such things, was fascinated by its flight, its determination, its bloated body of yellow and black.

_(Why was he fascinated by it?)_

“But the both of you will have to wait just a little while longer. Patience has never hurt anyone, and I am not done with my life, not just yet. Now pick up that basket and bring it back into the house. It’s time for some tea.”

The Solider forgot about the bee, and turned his attention back to Karpov and what he had been saying. A new Handler. An American. Such things made no difference to him. It merely was what it was. But why had Karpov said it will be good for him to go back? He must have been sent there for a mission, a job, a…

a…

_(…a metal railing pressing against his back…_

_Small, sticky hands, holding onto something…_

_Orange drips coating his fingers…with the promise of something sweet on his tongue…_

_An echo of laughter, sacred, because it was shared…_

_Bright sunlight…Bright hair…Bright, bright, bright blue eyes…)_

_(Another fleck of paint at his feet.)_

***

The very next day, the Handler had the Soldier drive him to a cemetery, where he was ordered to hold his cane, while Karpov carefully placed the roses from the day before on top of a single, solitary grave. They remained at the grave for a long time, Karpov’s head bowed, his eyes lowered. Nothing was expected of him, so the Soldier did nothing, simply stood sentry, until Karpov leaned forward to press his lips to the tombstone, and then reached out for the cane.

“My sister,” he said, once the Soldier helped him to his feet and they were making their way back to the vehicle. “She was the one to raise me after our parents died.” The Solider did not ask what had happened to her; it was obvious, but Karpov went on as if he did.

“She died during the war, long ago, before even your time. Murdered, by soldiers, because she was Russian and had the audacity to say no.” Karpov’s knuckles were white on the handle of his cane, on the Soldier’s arm, where he was holding onto him for support. “They used to call it the Great War back then, and it was, it’s so obvious to anyone who survived it. It made me understand why change was necessary, and why HYDRA were the only ones strong enough to make sure it did.

“We have all made sacrifices for that understanding, but my sister, she died too young, I can see that now.” Karpov shook his head, a weight to him, a sadness, the Soldier had never seen before. If he could, if he were capable of it, he would have pitied the Handler. But he could not, so he did not. “She was beautiful, you know, my sister. Big, brown eyes, long, dark hair she used to brush every morning before she braided it. Beautiful and strong, a swan among the swine.”

_(Long dark hair…_

_Long, curly hair…_

_A bright, coppery red with golden highlights in the summer, twisted in a long, heavy braid, baby soft curls at her temples…)_

“Ah, my Belka, even all these years later, and I still miss your smiles.”

_(Belka…_

_Belka…_

_No…No…_

_It was…It was…_

_Bec-)_

_(Another chip at his feet, and he knew this one would cut him if he bent over and tried to pick it up.)_

And then they were at the car, and it was time for him to drive the Handler home.

***

“Did you hear? The bitch has finally retired, for real this time,” Lukin said to Karpov several weeks later, as they sat together over a chessboard in Karpov’s sitting room, the Soldier standing in the corner, keeping watch. Karpov seldom had visitors these days, but when he did, his eyes always lit up with an eager glee. And, as was his right, he liked to show off the Soldier, having him perform the most trivial of tasks, while he and his guests entertained themselves. Sometimes he was a butler, sometimes a nephew, but he was always, always there, a reminder that while old, Karpov still had the power to change your fate.

It was unnecessary in this case; Lukin was also a Handler, one of only six others (or was it seven now, with that senator in America?) who knew of the Soldier’s existence and the Words to make him comply. Although they were not necessary. The Soldier knew how to obey, and even more importantly, to never do anything to contradict a Handler.

It was a privilege to even know of his existence, never mind be granted the knowledge of the Words; one of HYDRA’s deepest, darkest secrets, given to only a very select few. He was their greatest weapon, and one did not place a loaded gun into a child’s hands, unless they were sure that child understood the gift it was being given. 

“Has she now?” Karpov asked, as easily as if they were talking about the weather. The Solider knew that in spite of his tone, Karpov was much more interested than his casual move of a knight across the board would indicate. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“She had no choice, I’m told,” Lukin shifted his rook. “Armin said her mind is starting to go. Not so you’d notice, not really. But Armin has always had a keen eye for such things, and says you can see the signs.”

“Fury must be delighted to finally have her out of his hair.” Karpov swiped the rook with his bishop.

“Probably,” Lukin nodded. “But according to everything I’ve heard, he had her full support.”

“Does he need to be taken care of?” Karpov asked, with a quick glance in the Soldier’s direction. “Before he becomes too troublesome.”

“No,” Lukin shook his head with the confidence only a Handler could possess. “Our senator already has him well in hand. It shouldn’t be too much longer now anyway.”

“Ah,” Karpov sighed. “I wish I was going to be there to see it.”

“Weren’t you the one always going on about patience, Vasily? Your life’s work is finally over, and you can die knowing it was all for the greater good.”

“Hail HYDRA,” Karpov murmured with a nod.

“Hail HYDRA,” Lukin agreed, reaching for one of his pawns. “And check.”

“Ach, you bastard.”

“You taught me well.”

***

Later that night, after Lukin had left and the Soldier was helping Karpov get ready for bed, he said, seemingly out of nowhere, “She knew about you, you know.” The Soldier was confused, did not understand, but that did not stop him from kneeling down and sliding the slippers from the Handler’s feet.

“She had no proof, nothing concrete,” Karpov waved him off when he reached for the bedding to tuck him in. “But she’s always been shrewd, smarter than so many of our comrades ever gave her credit for. She had to be, to last as long as she did. But she must have known, especially after Long Island.”

The woman. He was talking about the woman from before. The Soldier had no idea why, but once again, he knew it must be important.

“She knew, and she never looked for you, never once sent anyone to check if it was true, try to find you. She did not care, you see,” Karpov shrugged, as if such things held any importance. He was an asset, a tool, and tools held no value except for what use they served. And then the Handler did something shocking; he reached up and placed his palm to the Soldier’s cheek.

“Only we care about you,” he said, very, very gently. His sudden softness, his unexpected kindness was more terrifying than almost anything the Soldier could remember experiencing. “That is why we fixed you, made you better than you were. Because we saw your potential and knew your worth. Something not even Director Carter could see. Do you understand, boy?”

He was being asked a direct question, which meant a response was expected.

_(A red dress…_

_Shiny, luxurious hair, always perfectly styled…_

_Crimson lips…_

_A sharp wit, matched only by an even sharper mind…_

_Something that had been his…_

_Something stolen from him…_

_But what?_

_But what?)_

_(This fleck of paint burned when it hit the floor by his feet. Like fire. Like rage. Like only ice could burn.)_

So the Soldier opened his mouth and said the only thing he could.

“Hail HYDRA.”

“Good boy. Hail HYDRA,” Karpov smiled, obviously pleased. “Now turn off the light on your way out.”

***

“Come here. Help me. I want to show you something.”

The Handler was in a good mood today, and when he was in such moods, he liked to play with the Solider, show him things he was not supposed to see, share with him secrets he was not supposed to know. The Soldier had come to understand it pleased the Handler to behave like a recalcitrant child, knowing he was doing something naughty when there was no one there to punish him.

“Pull up the carpet and move that bookshelf. There’s a latch, right behind the third shelf. But be careful. It’s spring loaded with a knife coated in a poison strong enough to knock even you out.”

The Soldier carefully explored area Karpov pointed to with the fingers of his left hand, barely pulling away in time before with a nearly silent hiss a blade sprouted from where his palm had just been.

“Good, good,” Karpov nodded his approval, stepping closer. “Now push it to your left, just like that, yes.” For all of his years and the way time had ravaged his body, Karpov still stood tall and strong, patiently waiting while the Soldier moved the bookshelf as instructed. It was surprisingly easy, and just like the knife, it barely made a sound as it moved. Behind it, there was nothing, just a plain, black wall of dark wood. The Soldier would have been disappointed if he ever felt such things. Or at least he would have felt that way at first. But upon a second, closer look, he could see there was something there, a panel perhaps, or a small, hidden door.

“Ah, you see it now. Of course you do. We made sure you would notice such things. Now move.”

The Soldier stepped aside, and Karpov took his place, tapping the wood in a series of quick, random taps -- _top, bottom, left, left, right, top, center, right, left, center, top, bottom, center_ \-- alternating his fingers as he did. And just like that, the wood was gone, as if it had never been, and they were both staring at another panel, this one made of metal, with a black iridescent square in the center.

“Biometric scanner,” Karpov explained as he pressed his right hand against it. “Designed by Armin to read my palm print and DNA. Anyone else and it will release more of that poison, as well as enough of an electrical charge to blow off even your arm, so don’t get any ideas boy. But never mind that, look inside.” Karpov pointed into the small compartment now open to the world. Inside there was an envelope, a knife with a blade so sharp its edges gleamed in spite of its obvious age, a sepia toned photograph of a woman with long dark hair _(the Handler’s sister?)_ and…and…

A book.

With a red cover. And a black star.

“Do you know what that is?” Karpov asked. The Soldier did not _(did)_ so he shook his head. “It is the book of your making.” Karpov reached past him to take it into his hands, where he cradled it as gently, as carefully, as if it were a newborn babe. “All that we did to make you what you are. To make you perfect. To make you ours. You were nothing, before this book. And you would be nothing without it. It is the bible of you.” He held it out, obviously expecting the Soldier to take it. So that is what he did _(somehow, somehow, somehow, with steady fingers, even though everything, everything inside of him was trembling)_.

“Beautiful, is it not?” This time the Handler did not expect an answer, so the Soldier did not give him one. “When I die, this will be delivered to the senator, so he will know and understand what a great gift he has been given, and how to use it best.

“It has been with me for many years, and I will be sad to see it go. But it is time, and the future waits for no man.” He plucked the book from the Soldier’s hands, returning it to its resting place. “I’m not supposed to show it to anyone, especially not you, but I thought you’d like to see it just once. Your genesis. Even if you won’t remember it, I thought you should know.”

With that, Karpov closed the door to the safe, turned to the Soldier with a small smile, filled with even smaller blades, and said, “ _Sputnik._ ”

The world went black.

***

_(But when he opened his eyes hours later, the Handler was wrong. He did remember.)_

***

_(The Handler was wrong.)_

***

The Handler was **_WRONG._**

***

“How are you feeling, boy?” Karpov asked him the next morning over breakfast. Or at least breakfast for Karpov. The Soldier did not eat food. Instead, three times a day, but only when the Handler granted permission, he prepared and then drank a thick purple concoction, that met all of his caloric requirements. It had been explained to him that the mixture, along with the four small vials in his arm that were replaced once every two weeks without fail, were created for his unique physiology to optimize performance.

At first, the Handler conducted the replacements himself. But after a year, Karpov complained the process hurt his fingers, and allowed the Soldier to do it himself, although always under his watchful eye. The Soldier knew he should be pleased; it meant the Handler trusted him, trusted in his absolutely belief and devotion. But the Soldier, always watchful, ( _always learning_ ), had long ago realized there was more in those shakes and vials than simple nutrients and vitamins. Drugs of some sort, to keep him compliant, complacent, dependent. If he went without them for too long, his systems would shut down, making retrieval easier, and always, always followed by the Chair.

Yet for all of his supposed trust and concern, Karpov was no fool, and liked to test him, test his loyalty and devotion to the Handlers, to their cause.

And this was a test.

He was not supposed to remember what had happened last night _(but the Handler was wrong)_ , and he was being directly asked to report on his condition, which meant he needed to respond.

But just like HYDRA had many heads, so too did the truth have many faces, and the Soldier _(learning, learning, always learning),_ knew how to answer without lying.

“Ready to comply,” he said, shifting the last vial into place and closing the panel on his arm.

***

He passed the test.

***

There were more tests after that. But there had always been tests, and as far as the Soldier understood, there would always be tests. And the Soldier was nothing if not efficient.

One night, after dinner had been served, and the plates all washed and put away, once he was settled in the couch beneath an afghan with a book, Karpov waved a careless hand at the old record player in the corner and said, “Why don’t you pick something for us to listen to. It’s too quiet in this house. Whatever you like.”

The Soldier stepped over to the cabinet next to record player, his fingers quickly flicking through the choices available to him. Choice was not something he was ever offered, but he knew what the Handler liked, so he would simply pick that instead. But as he scanned the titles in his search, there was…

There was…

_(He was our boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B_

_  
And when he plays boogie woogie bugle, he was buzy as a 'bzzz' bee  
  
_

_And when he plays, he makes the company jump eight-to-the-bar  
  
_

_He's the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B…)_

And…

_(He left me for a damsel dark, damsel dark_

_  
Each Friday night they used to spark_

_  
Used to spark_

_  
And now my love who once was true to me_

_  
Takes this dark damsel on his knee…)_

But he ignored those selections, the buzzing in his head, choosing instead what he had been originally searching for.

“Good choice,” was all Karpov said, as Dmitry Shostakovich’s Symphony Number 7 filled the air.

***

He passed the test.

***

“You know you are taking a huge risk keeping it out of cryo for so long, especially without wiping its memory.” The face on the screen was distorted, ghastly, something that may have once been human, but no longer was, a screen within a screen. But none of that mattered, because the Soldier remembered that face, would recognize it no matter where or when he was.

The Doctor.

_(Screams, screams, screams, in his head, echoing off the walls, blood splatter on the floor, on the table he was strapped to, on the saw cutting off what was left of his arm…)_

But Karpov merely laughed, another echo bouncing off the walls of his office, as he leaned back in his leather chair.

“Am I hearing this right? The great doctor, Armin Zola, actually doubting his own work?” He cocked an eyebrow at the screen. “I must have died already, because I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“I do not doubt my work!” the Doctor snapped. He had a wispy, reedy voice, his Russian laced with what the Solider recognized _(remembered)_ was a heavy Swiss accent. “In fact, that is why I am warning you. My serum means that given enough time, without proper maintenance, it can heal from almost anything done to it.”

“But it is loyal. _I_ made sure of that.” Where the Doctor was agitated, Karpov was calm, cool, collected.

“General –“

“Watch,” Karpov cut him off, and then ordered, “come here.” The Soldier stepped forward to stand at Karpov’s side. “Give me your weapon.”

“You keep it armed?” the Doctor asked, as the Soldier handed his handgun over.

“How else will it do its job if it does not have the tools it needs?” Karpov clicked the safety off.

“The arm -“

“Is but one of its many options. Now watch,” Karpov cut him off again. “Kneel.”

The Soldier knelt.

“Open your mouth.”

The Soldier did as instructed, and Karpov smoothly shoved the loaded gun past his lips, sliding the muzzle over his tongue and into the back of his throat, his elderly, knobbed finger, that had a tendency to shake if he overexerted himself, on the trigger.

The Solider knelt, his mouth open, neck bared and eyes flat. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

_Click. Click. Click_ ticked the clock on the mantel.

One minute. Two minutes. Five.

“Loyalty,” Karpov finally said, pulling the gun from the Soldier’s mouth, only to strike him across the face with the barrel, hard enough to draw blood. The Soldier did not bother to wipe it away. He knew blood, and he knew pain. This barely even registered. “It is a dog and it knows better than to bite its master.”

“That dog has fangs,” the Doctor hissed. “Don’t ever forget that.”

“That we gave it,” Karpov reached down to run his fingers through the Soldier’s hair. “If it remembers anything, it remembers that we can take just as easily as we give.”

***

The Soldier passed the test.

***

_(And the Soldier, always learning, learning, learning, learned (remembered) what rage was.)_

***

Tests. Tests. Tests. So many tests. Because Karpov was bored, or angry, or happy, or simply because he felt like it. And the Soldier, because he was the Soldier, because he was perfect, the perfect weapon, the perfect tool, and knew nothing else was acceptable, passed them all.

Except for the one he almost didn’t.

But then again, HYDRA, the Handlers, Karpov should have known better.

In the end, they had no one to blame but themselves.

***

They were once again in the sitting room, Karpov settled in his favorite spot on the couch, and the Soldier, having been granted permission, sitting on the opposite end, watching the news on the television. Karpov, for all of his supposed retirement, liked to keep track of what was going on in the world, especially when it came to politics, commenting on the state of current affairs, sometimes angry, sometimes pitying, but always, always condescending.

Tonight however, Karpov seemed bored by what he was seeing, and with what appeared to be a casual disdain, picked up the remote and changed the channel.

The Soldier should have known better.

But then again, so should have Karpov.

The new program he selected was a documentary of some sort, a history of the last hundred years, highlighting all the advances and accomplishments that brought the world to where it was. The Soldier was aware they were at a turning point in time, on the cusp of not just a new year, but decade, century, millennium, and as the summer passed into autumn, there were many historical retrospectives being aired. The Solider thought them redundant; he knew, had been told, he helped shape and change history, but he was not of it, and there would be no one to comment on what he had done.

But the Handler seemed to enjoy these things, and so they watched them, because it was always the Handler who made such decisions.

That evening’s program was focused not on Mother Russia, usually Karpov’s favorite topic, but America instead. But then again, it was not the Soldier’s place to question such things, so he sat, with one ear and eye always aware of Karpov, since that was the purpose he served.

And that was when it happened.

The program had just finished detailing the struggles the United States had gone through during the 1930’s, something it called the Great Depression, and began to discuss the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and America’s subsequent involvement in World War Two.

It was always war with the Americans. And Karpov was right; Americans had no understanding of subtlety, nuance, patience, and wherever they went, chaos and blood followed. Effective perhaps, but ultimately inefficient. That was why they, the world, would be better off beneath HYDRA’s command. But then the pictures on the screen changed, and the narrator started to speak of a single individual, a hero unlike any ever seen before, whose actions and ultimate sacrifice ended up not just winning the war, but saving the world.

A picture on the screen of a tall…

_(…taller than the tallest tree…)_

broad shouldered…

_(…broader than a mountain…)_

blond...

_(…brighter than the brightest star, the burst of a volcano, the sun…bright, bright, bright…)_

man…

_(…he had been a boy once, just a boy, skinny and pale and sickly, but strong and fierce and beautiful, and…and…and…)_

Captain America, Steven Grant Rogers…

_(…Captain America…Steven Grant Rogers…Steve…Stevie, Stevie, Stevie…_

_And he had been…He had been…)_

Within and without, the pieces, the flecks, the little bits of paint that had been scattering all around him were raining down on his mind. Not just the paint, but the walls were crumbling too, and the ground cracking open beneath his feet. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to turn, the rubble an endless cascade he could not escape. Worse than the Words, than the Chair, a million times more painful, and he was helpless against it.

But the Soldier knew helplessness, had submitted to it time and time again, had been borne from it, and even though this was a pain no one should have been able to bear, should ever have to bear, the Soldier knew how to sit and be still, and wait.

It was what saved him in the end.

“Ah, the famous Captain America,” Karpov’s voice cut through the roaring tsunami in the Soldier’s head. But the Solider, like a dog that had been kicked, a man who had been beaten, a terrified human being who had been tortured time and time again, had been trained to always heed the Handler’s voice and so, without any conscious thought, he turned his head towards his master. “Such a nuisance, that one. It’s because of him that Schmidt is dead, although not his vision, never that. Such greatness cannot be destroyed, and we have continued his work in honor of that greatness. So even though that fool sacrificed his life for what he thought was the greater good, ultimately, in the end, it was for nothing. What do you think about that, boy? Any thoughts on the matter?”

_(Dead…Dead?...No, no, no, not Steve, not Stevie, nononononononono…)_

Earthquakes and tsunamis, tsunamis and earthquakes. Rocks crumbling to dust on top of him, flecks of paint – no, not paint, but blood, blood, blood everywhere, in his eyes, his ears, his throat, choking him to death as his world imploded.

And all the while, Karpov watched him, knives in his eyes, his smile, the whips and chains and endless, endless dark he wielded like no one else ever had before or ever would again.

But the Soldier knew this test, had taken it time and time again, and because he was made to be perfect, he did not need to think how to answer, or what his answer should be. He simply spoke the only words he needed to say, the only answer he could possibly give.

“Hail HYDRA.”

It was the last time the Soldier would say those words, and the only time, _the only goddamned motherfucking time,_ Bucky ever did.

He passed the test, barely, but he did. And that was all that mattered in the end.

“It’s such a shame,” Karpov sighed, looking disappointed as he picked up the remote and turned the television off. “You really used to be so much more interesting than this.”

***

Two nights later, Karpov discovered for himself just how interesting the Soldier could be. And what happened when the dog you had been kicking, beating, whipping into submission, with the fangs you yourself gave it, decided to not only finally bite back, but rip off the hand that had been feeding it.

Ultimately, it was not about what the Soldier chose to do. Instead, it was about what he chose _not_ to.

There was a reason Karpov was retired, why the Soldier had been assigned to be his bodyguard. He was old, in his nineties now, and while surprisingly fit for his age, he still suffered the complications that inevitably came with time. While his mind was still sharp, he tired quickly and easily, had arthritis in nearly all his joints, and most importantly of all, his heart was weak, getting weaker every day. Angina, for which he was prescribed a daily dosage of aspirin and glyceryl trinitrate, the bottles resting like neat, little soldiers in a row on his bedside table, and swallowed every evening before bed with a nearly obsessive punctuality. As of yet, the medications had been doing their job.

Except this night, just two nights after they watched that documentary about Captain America, two nights during which something new, something quivering and fragile and as of yet unformed, unnamed, unknowing, but becoming, becoming, _becoming_ , emerged from the wreckage of what had come before whatever the Soldier had been programmed to be, the Fates aligned, and that thing, whatever it was, whatever it was going to become, seized the moment and took its chance.

It was late, after midnight, and Karpov had long since retired to bed. The Soldier was curled up on the pallet on the floor by the door, where he was allowed to sleep, when he first heard it, his eyes flying open; a desperate, rasping gasp for breath.

The Soldier was on his feet and by Karpov’s side in an instant, staring down at the man he had been ordered to protect, observing what a quick assessment indicated was a severe myocardial infarction. He was losing his breath, but not his awareness, and his eyes were wide with panic, pain, terror, as he stared up at the Soldier with one hand clenching his chest, the other clumsily reaching for his pills. He was begging, pleading, wordlessly, silently, since he no longer had enough air to spare for words, his own heart, shriveled and knotted as it was, finally betraying him.

This was a test, a choice, and one the Soldier knew he could pass. But the Soldier has also been observing, studying, _learning._ And what he had learned over the past eighteen months spent in Karpov’s company was that the Handler could be wrong, that he had once been something other than the Soldier, that rage could be even stronger than fear, and that obedience and service, just like the truth, could take many forms. It was an advantage, and the Soldier had been trained to make the most of one of those when it presented itself to him.

He could not hurt a Handler; that was a tenant of his programming too strong to violate. And he could not disobey one either; that was also something coded irrevocably into his psyche. But, and this was the thread he grabbed and wrapped around his hands, his heart, his mind, he did not have to help one either, unless specifically ordered to. Since Karpov was beyond words at this point, it was not a violation, a system malfunction, or something his own conditioning would punish him for.

He could do more, he should do more; give Karpov his medication, perform CPR, call for an ambulance, but without the order to do so, he did not _have to_. And with that realization, something in him died, only to be reborn, screaming its fury into the world.

But for all that it was painful, joyful, something to be mourned, something to be rejoiced, he knew he did not have much time, and needed to act quickly if he was going to make the most of this opportunity.

Turning his back on Karpov, he strode over to the bookshelf, kicked the carpet aside, and used his left hand to undo the latch behind the third shelf, shoving it open and making his way back to the bed before the poisoned blade sprung free. Karpov was so old and weak, small, this man that had in turns both dominated and terrified his existence. Such a frail thing, gasping and wheezing as he was hauled to his feet and dragged across the floor. But still vicious, still spiteful, even here at the end, desperate to regain some control, any control, over the situation.

“Sp-spu-“ The Soldier halted his feeble attempt at escape by jamming the first two fingers of his metal hand into Karpov’s mouth, with the exact same care Karpov had used when he shoved the barrel of the Soldier’s gun into his. It was just as effective, and the Soldier was certain, just as humiliating. With his left hand, he raised Karpov’s right, and making sure to use the same fingers, tapped out the pattern once seen, but never forgotten, onto the black wooden panel; _top, bottom, left, left, right, top, center, right, left, center, top, bottom, center,_ watching it shimmer before it disappeared, revealing the Soldier’s ultimate goal. Following an instinct telling him he needed Karpov alive for this, he then forced his still warm hand against the panel, holding it there as the scanner read his palm until the safe finally clicked, revealing its treasures to the world. Then, and only then, knowing in that way he had been trained, that Karpov only had seconds left of life in him, did he let go, indifferent as Karpov dropped to the floor as gracelessly as a bag of potatoes, kneeling down to crouch over him and stare, with a smile that held no knives, yet plenty of poisons, silent and still, as the man died, knowing he had lost.


	3. 1999 - The Ghost

**1999**

**The Ghost**

The Handler was dead.

The Handler – no, Karpov, was dead, and for the first time, _(was it the first time? he couldn’t remember)_ , he had no orders and no one to obey.

But that did not mean he was free.

Karpov was dead, but there were others like him, other Handlers. If he wanted to escape, he had to act quickly before anyone else realized something was amiss. Rising from his crouch, he reached into the safe to retrieve the envelope, the photo, the knife, and last, but not least, the book. It was, as he had been told, the book of his making, and he would be damned if he allowed anyone else to possess it, especially not some American senator whose name he did not even know.

But that was all right, at least for now. There were plenty of other things he did know, that had to be done, before he could evacuate the site and make his way…where?

Already the programming was kicking in, a tugging in his brain, telling him he needed to report, return to the nearest base and submit himself to the control of another Handler. He snarled at it, at himself, ignoring the pain and compulsion by telling it _soon, soon, soon, the mission was not complete yet_. That was enough to ease most of the ache, allowing him room to step back, survey his surroundings, and decide on his next course of action. 

That was easy enough. He knew how to make a death, any death, look like a natural occurrence, as well as how to leave the scene without a trace. Karpov was old, and he had a heart condition, so it would surprise no one to discover him dead in his bed of a heart attack.

With that thought, he bent over and picked up Karpov’s still warm corpse to lay him carefully on the bed, arranging the covers around him in just the right way so it appeared as if he had tossed and turned a bit, but died peacefully enough in his sleep. Then he turned towards setting the room back to rights, making sure to wipe everything down once that was complete, so there was not a single, solitary fingerprint left anywhere. Gathering his stolen treasures, he exited the bedroom for the final time.

There were things he needed to do, and quickly, if this mission were to succeed, so he made his way into the kitchen to do them. The first, and most pressing, was the removal of the trackers he knew HYDRA implanted in his body as yet another safeguard. Clever of them, he supposed, to install additional failsafes, but it could also be used to his advantage. The first two were easy enough to remove, and since his keepers had not thought him aware of their existence _(but he had always been watching, always learning)_ , they had not thought to modify his programming to prevent him from removing them. He unlocked the panel on the back of his shoulder, and the one at the base of his bicep, and _plick-plick_ , just like that, they were gone. The third one was implanted in the medial collateral ligament of his right knee, and its removal was going to be painful and bloody. But he had survived much worse; gunshot wounds, whippings that left his spine exposed to the world, surgeries performed without anesthesia, and this would be mild in comparison to all of that. Scrubbing Karpov’s knife clean, in case there were any poisons on the blade, without even pausing for breath, he made a quick and neat incision in his knee, ignoring the blood as he searched for the tracker. Once removed, he cleaned the area, feeling his flesh already stitching itself back together, before he rose, returned to the sink, and washed the blood off the blade and small, metal implant. As much as he wanted to destroy it, destroy all of them, he knew it more prudent to leave them active but somewhere hidden in the house. That way anyone checking his location, and he knew they did, would think he was still in Karpov’s home in Moscow. It would buy him some much-needed time.

As would the fact that Karpov’s next visitor, General Lukin of all people, another Handler, was not due for another visit for at least two weeks. This he had learned from an overheard conversation only just that morning, when the two men talked on the phone.

So, even more time then.

The next consideration to take into account were the vials in his arm. If they were not replaced regularly, he knew _(was starting to remember_ ) he would begin to experience withdrawals strong enough to leave him convulsing on the floor. Stored in yet another secret compartment next to the refrigerator, there were enough for two more replacements. The current ones had been replaced exactly three days ago, which meant he had enough dosages to sustain him for five weeks. After that...well, he was not looking forward to what was going to come after that.

But he had no choice, or did he? And wasn’t that a shock to his awareness, something that left him as weak and as helpless as a newborn babe. He had choices now, when he hadn’t had those in… _that_ he could not remember. Limited yes, but maybe…maybe not if he made the right ones now.

But what were the right choices to make? What did he need to do if he wanted to ensure his continued freedom? _(And he did, he did, more than anything else, he did.)_

The Handlers were the biggest threat. They were in possession of the Words and the Chair. They knew all his strengths and had themselves installed all his weaknesses. There were six of them left, if he did not include the American senator, and as the senator did not yet know the words, or even his true identity, according to Karpov, he could be discarded for now. So six in total. If he could eliminate them, that would be his most pressing problem solved.

But you did not hurt the Handler. That was one of the first rules he ever learned, and even just thinking of doing so had the programming screeching in his brain, demanding he return, report, submit, a klaxon so overwhelming he needed to jam his thumb into his still healing knee hard enough for the pain to drown out everything else.

So, not that. He would have to think of something else.

Or maybe not. Maybe he could just think about it differently.

Because…

Because…

He knew over a thousand ways to kill somebody. And not all of them were brutal. Murder, yes, undeniably so. But death inevitably came for everyone, and if he could find a way to do it that was swift, quiet and most importantly painless, wasn’t he then in a way protecting the Handlers, serving them by saving them from any suffering? They were all getting old after all, the youngest in his fifties, from what little he could remember. So wouldn’t it be a kindness to shorten any potentially prolonged suffering? That was what he was programmed to do after all. Would framing it that way actually work?

If anything, it seemed to confuse the programming, trapping it in a paradox it could not work itself around. It was still rattling in his brain, making its demands, but nowhere near as loudly as before.

He could work with that. He had worked with less in the past, and still successfully completed his missions. He supposed there was only one way to find out.

***

It wasn’t easy. It was anything but easy, taking a lot of planning and circumventing the traps of his own mind, that cost him valuable, precious time.

But it wasn’t that hard either.

Lukin was the first. He had to be; he was the closest to Karpov, in both physical proximity and in terms of communication.

An override of the security system, and all the alarms in Lukin’s St. Petersburg home _(child’s play for one such as him)_ , and a carefully, oh-so-carefully released carbon monoxide leak, and within three hours the General fell into a deep and dreamless sleep he would never wake from, his death ruled a horrific accident.

He spent longer than that heaving up bile and blood from the pain his programming inflicted upon him as a result, almost, _almost,_ wishing he were dead instead.

But he endured, and when he was finally able to lift his head and drag himself across the floor and into the bathroom of the filthy and roach infested motel room he had hidden himself within, there was something inside of him, something new. Not a break in the programming, but something to counter it. Small yet, but there, something to grasp and cling to, that made all the pain, and it had been tremendous, worth it.

Happiness. A sense of pride, accomplishment, that his first mission had been successfully completed.

_Take that, you motherfucking bastard_ , was his last thought before the vomiting started again.

***

Smislov was his second target. And it took him time, too much time, to figure out a way to eliminate the physician while circumventing his programming. But he was persistent, and determined, and had never once failed a mission in his life.

He did find a way eventually. It was surprisingly easy once he did. A few scattered memories of serving under that Handler, combined with a week’s worth of surveillance, confirmed the man was an oenophile, and would it not be a kindness, an ultimate act of appreciation and submission to gift him with something that would undoubtably bring a smile to his face?

Smislov died quietly, and quite peacefully, in his den, the book he had been reading on his lap, an empty glass of Cabernet Sauvignon laced with an undetectable poison staining the carpet at his feet, a smile on his face.

***

It still hadn’t been easy though. The price of Smislov’s painless death was three days of agony that had blood dripping from his nose, ears, eyes and mouth, while every synapse in his brain fired with enough force to rival a nuclear explosion. At one point, he regained enough self-awareness to find himself halfway to the nearest HYDRA base, ready to throw himself at their feet, and beg for forgiveness, for mercy, for even another session in the Chair, followed by the peace of the cryo-tank, if it would just make it stop.

_Please._

_Just._

_Make._

_It._

_Stop._

He resorted to unsheathing Karpov’s knife and digging it back into his knee to prevent himself from taking a single step forward. What was one more pain on top of all the rest?

But eventually, eventually _(hours? days? A week? later),_ it did stop, and when he was at last able to lift his head and take a look around at the moldy and slime covered walls of the sewage tunnel he was hiding in, something had changed.

Perhaps it was because enough time had finally passed. Or perhaps something else had bled out of him along with all of his blood. Or perhaps Doctor Zola had been right and his blasted serum was doing its job, healing his body and reversing any damage done to it. Perhaps it was all of that or none of it.

Or, he realized as he sat there, still panting as he replaced the vials in his arm, it was something else entirely.

Because the programming, while still there, still waiting, still trying to strangle him into obedience, was growing weaker. No, not weaker, but quieter. Or at least it was in comparison to all of the other images and compulsions ricocheting around his brain.

Memories, it took him too long to realize. A tangled and twisted Gordian Knot of them, throbbing, pulsating, growing, all fighting for room in the limited confines of his skull. Every time he tried to focus on one, tug its string, it jumped, shifted, transformed into something else.

_A blond boy smiling at him. A young woman with long, curly red hair being twirled in the air. A bumble bee. A priest’s prayer. An exploding head. The scent of boiling potatoes. Six little girls in tutus. A bumble bee. A rifle in his hands. An older man with kind, proud eyes smiling down at him. A blur of red, white and blue. Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight. A rollercoaster ride. An endless, endless fall. A desperate hand reaching out. Cold-cold-cold. Beautiful, stunning, striking blue eyes. A bumble bee…_

_Into, into, into…_

_Endless, endless, endless…_

So much, too much and he would have screamed from it, if he wasn’t already choking on his own blood.

It still gave him no clues, no understanding of what it, they, _he_ all meant. Only that they were his, and he would have to find a way to carry them, just like he always carried his guns and knives, his knowledge of the quickest way to eliminate a target, his metal arm.

He was no longer perfect, but he thought he might, just might, be on his way to becoming human. But his time was running out and birthings were never easy. There were still things he needed to do, and miles to go before he could sleep. _(What?)_

It was time to take care of the next target.

***

Pchelinstov was the next, and unbeknownst to him at the time, final Handler he would eliminate _(at least for a while)._ And for all the terror that man inspired in his guts, his bowels, the deepest and most hidden chambers of his heart, he was surprisingly the easiest. Because the programming was locked in its own battle within his head, spread thin as it fought for dominance, and not as all-encompassing as it once had been. 

Its distraction allowed the Soldier, (no, not the Soldier, or the Asset or HYDRA’s fist, but _him_ ) to choose the means of elimination. The programming flared at his decision to take Pchelinstov out from long range, until he reasoned with it how a single bullet used by a well-trained sniper could end a life quick, _(not so)_ clean, and completely painlessly. There would be no suffering and the target would be dead before they had half a second to realize what happened. The programming once again attempted to shut him down, force him to comply, submit, surrender himself, but the roaring wave rose again –

_Six little girls twirling on their toes, brunette, blonde, blood colored hair, knives in their hands, manacles chaining them to their beds…_

\- and overrode the compulsions.

It was surprisingly easy, for all that Pchelinstov was the most difficult to isolate. The Handlers, HYDRA, had never been stupid, and after the deaths of Karpov, Lukin and Smislov they realized their Asset had either been captured or gone rogue, and was eliminating them one by one.

They had a right to be afraid.

For all that those bastards like to go on about how cutting off one head only meant two would take its place, any living organism could bleed to death with enough papercuts, especially if those slices were close enough to its heart.

And he had a lot of knives, _a lot_ _of them_ , as well as bullets, that they had taught him how to use to maximum effect.

So really, they had no one to blame but themselves.

It was one of those bullets he used, perched in a tall tree over a mile away, to shoot through the car window that was transporting Pchelinstov from his home to the nearest HYDRA safe house, blowing his brains out.

_In his mind, the little ballerinas lifted their arms and pirouetted in perfect synchronicity, their delighted laughter drowning out the enraged roar of the programming._

***

It was the last kill he made for a while.

Four Handlers terminated, three yet still remaining and he had run out of time. Not because HYDRA was able to locate him; the removal of his trackers ensured that. But because he just replaced the last set of vials in his arm, which meant he only had two weeks of functionality left before the withdrawals hit, and he would need to find a burrow to bury himself within until whatever was going to happen to him happened.

But where could he go? It would need to be someplace safe, and he needed to lay a false trail before he submitted himself to this final onslaught. How would he even be able to identify what safety was after so long without? He couldn’t stay where he was, another abandoned sewage tunnel somewhere on the southside of Katowice. The smell was overwhelming, and while over two hundred miles away from the site of Pchelinstov’s death, it was still too close. While spread throughout the world, HYDRA’s forces were strongest in Eastern Europe, and they would be searching for him.

He thought on it over and over and over again, as he sat in the damp and cold, flies buzzing around him, staring at his meager collection of possessions. Aside from his weapons, there really wasn’t much to it. Most of it, aside from the two changes of clothes, and the cash he managed to pickpocket during his travels, originally belonged to Karpov. He could not even bear to look at the book, although he was strangely fond of the knife. The envelope contained the names and addresses of all the Handlers, since Karpov had always been a paranoid motherfucker, as well as several numbers, which he recognized as bank accounts, although all of that was useless to him at the moment.

Aside from that, there was just the photograph of the stern and serious young woman, Karpov’s sister, whose grave they visited, where the man had laid roses he clipped from his own garden. There had been a bee, he thought, dancing in the sunlight, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing…

Like the fucking flies were buzzing around him, annoying the shit out of him, as he waved a hand to scatter them away.

But still, the image of that single, solitary bee lingered in his mind, the flutter of its wings matching the throb steadily growing in his temples, the base of his skull. What had her name been, Karpov’s sister? He should be able to remember it, shouldn’t he? And why was her name suddenly so important?

_Buzz, buzz, buzz_ went the flies.

_Buzz, buzz, buzz_ went the bee.

How unfair, he thought, that Karpov, murderous, sick animal that he was, once had someone who loved him, when he had no one. A sister, who had been beautiful, according to Karpov, with long hair she used to braid.

_Buzz, buzz, buzz_ went the flies.

_Buzz, buzz, buzz_ went the bee.

What was her name?

_Buzz, buzz, buzz_ went the flies.

_Buzz, buzz, buzz_ went the bee.

Belka. That was it.

No, not Belka. And her hair wasn’t brown, but a fiery, coppery red, that he would braid for her every morning…

And he had…he had…

He had _loved_ her, with all of his heart, more than anyone except…

What was her name?

_Buzz, buzz, buzz_ went the flies.

_Buzz, buzz, buzz_ went the bee.

Not Belka, but…but…

_Buzz, buzz, buzz_ went the flies.

_Buzz, buzz, buzz_ went the bee.

Becca. _Becca!_ That was it, and he used to call her…

He used to call her his _Becca-Bee_ , a private name, just between the two of them, before he picked her up and twirled her in the air, her laughter one of his favorite sounds in the world.

There were tears on his cheeks, and a deep, aching pain, not in his head this time, but his heart. His little baby sister, how long had it been since he’d last seen her? Was she even still alive? Intelligent and fearless, with her freckles and bright blue eyes, would she recognize him if she could see him now, smile her crooked smile at him, laughing at whatever stupid thing he purposely said just so she would?

Would she take him into her arms, wipe away his tears, the way he used to wipe away hers, and say to him, _‘It’s all right now, it’s all right. It’s going to be OK, I promise you Bucky, I promise you.’_

In the end, with flies swarming around his head and tears streaming down his cheeks, what was left of James Buchanan Barnes remembered his sister’s name, and rediscovered the meaning of the word _hope_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when I posted the first two chapters of this story, I was once again surprised by all the wonderful comments by so many familiar faces. You are all so wonderful and generous with your time and encouragement, especially with the world the way it is right now, and I wanted to thank you, so much, because it really meant a lot to me. 🧡
> 
> I'm also posting this chapter a bit earlier than I normally would, because it's a big day here in the US, but also a very stressful one. If nothing else, I hope this chapter gives you a bit, just a bit, of respite from all the news and doomscrolling. Hopefully things will look better in the morning. 
> 
> **hugs you all**


	4. 2000 - Rebecca

**2000**

**Rebecca**

If anyone were to ask her if she was happy with her life, Rebecca Barnes-Proctor would have nodded, and easily and quite honestly answered, _Yes._

If they were to then follow that up with, _How?_ she would have paused, smiled at them kindly, and said, _Now that’s a much more difficult question to answer._

A bit of luck, a bit of determination, she could have said, and a hell of a lot of spite. Because sometimes life tried its hardest to fuck you over, and you had to say _fuck you_ right back, and write your own damned happy ending.

As she had that thought, she could practically hear her mother’s voice in her ear, telling her to _‘Watch your goddamned mouth, Rebecca Bethany Barnes, or I’ll wash it out with soap myself.’_

But her mother was no longer alive to scold her, and besides, Winifred had been known to curse a blue streak of her own back in the day, especially after a glass or two of whiskey. Bucky would have cut in with a, _‘If you think that’s bad, just you wait until you hear this joke Matty told me the other day. A priest, a monk and a rabbi all walked into this bar, see…’_ Less than a minute later, their ma would be threatening to wash _his_ mouth out with things even worse than soap, their da would be rolling his eyes, while Steve, from where he was playing cards with Gracie and Daniella at their kitchen table, snickered. Once things quieted down, or at least quieted down as much as they did in the Barnes’ household, Bucky would glance at her with a quick smile and a wink, that without any words said, _‘Don’t worry about it Becca-Bee, I’m always going to have your back.’_

And he always did, until the day a dreaded letter, and a war that had been a distant thing up until then, arrived at their door, took her beloved big brother from not just her, but the rest of her family, the world, way too soon.

That was the first time she had come to understand the true meaning of loss. The first time, but certainly not the last.

Steve had been next, family not by blood but choice from nearly the instant Bucky practically dragged a short, skinny and sickly little boy with a mulish scowl on his face, by his hand into their family’s apartment and announced, _‘This is Stevie. I met him at school today and he’s my new best friend, and I told him he had to try some of Ma’s cookies, since they’re the best in the world.’_ Bucky had been eight, Steve seven, and they had been inseparable ever since. Until the war took Steve from them too, less than three months after it took Bucky, and Becca, who had loved Steve almost as much as Bucky, thought she was going to die from her grief.

A fire in the factory where she had been working had taken Daniella, their own Rosie the Riveter, from them at the end of July in 1945. Gracie, following in the footsteps her brother had never willingly tread, ended up dying during the Korean War, where she’d been serving as a nurse. Her father died from a heart attack four months later; his heart, already battered and weak from serving in and surviving the first World War, was too weak to withstand the shock of that final, insulting loss. Their mother followed not long after, also from a heart attack. No parent was supposed to outlive their children, much less three of them, and while Winifred had been one of the strongest women Rebecca had ever known, even the strongest of hearts could only bear so much.

She remembered thinking then that maybe, just maybe, that would be it, that there would be no more loss, and she would finally be able to live the rest of her life in peace.

Apparently not.

There were the children, that after years and years of trying and failing to conceive, she and Bobbi had to admit they were never going to be blessed with; that was when she discovered it was possible to mourn something you never even had. But their love for each other had been strong and true, and she never once regretted the day she said yes when Robert William Proctor, the handsome but shy accountant from their family’s bank, finally worked up enough courage to ask her to dinner. He had been a kind and gentle man, patient and supportive, and they’d shared fifty good years of a life otherwise well-lived, planning, hoping for at least another fifteen more, before a stroke took him too from her, only a few months after his eightieth birthday.

So loss and pain and grief were not things she was unfamiliar with.

But at almost eighty-years old, as a widow and the last Barnes left standing, she thought it her duty and her right, on this cusp of this new millennium, to spit in the face of both Death and Fate and say, _Fuck you. I’m happy._

And she was.

It wasn’t that she didn’t miss her husband or family; it was just that life had taught her, forced her to understand, that you needed to find your happiness and hold onto it as hard as you could, because no one else would do it for you.

Besides, she was doing pretty damned well, even if she did say so herself. Her vision wasn’t what it used to be, but she had glasses for that, and maybe she did tire a bit more easily than she once did, but not by much. Her hair was still long and thick, even if it was mostly white with the remaining strands of color a pale imitation of the copper-penny red it used to be. She was surprisingly healthy and active for a woman her age, a fact that pleased her doctor, and she loved rubbing in the faces of her fellow practitioners whenever she easily slid into and held the three-legged dog pose during her biweekly yoga class. She took an hour long walk every morning, and truly enjoyed her aqua-aerobics classes at the senior center. The pension she had earned after forty years of teaching high school English, combined with what was left of Bobbi’s, as well as her social security, meant her finances were solid, and the life insurance after his death allowed her to pay off what was left of the mortgage on the house, purchased three years ago, where she and Bobbi planned to spend the rest of their years together. Granted, the house was in Jersey, and she could just hear her brother’s voice in her head saying snidely, _‘Jersey? Really, Becca-Bee?’_ But she liked living in Landing, and her white house, while not the biggest, was just across the road and less than three hundred feet away from Lake Hopatcong, and had a nice, big yard in the back, with a porch where she would sit in the mornings and admire the sunrise.

Most importantly, her mind was as sharp as it had ever been, and she took pride in the fact that while so many of her peers began so many of their sentences with a grumbled _back in our day,_ she wasn’t intimidated by the way technology kept advancing and changing, making their lives so much easier. She liked computers, found the internet fascinating, knew how to send an email and what a search engine was, _thank-you-very-much_ , and thought cell phones unbelievably convenient.

Besides, either one changed with the times, or risked getting left behind. And she was damned tired of being left behind.

Bucky would have loved it, loved all of it, she knew. He had always been captivated by science and technology, dreaming of the future, his nose buried deep in a book or the latest issue of _Amazing Stories_ , when he wasn’t running wild in the streets with Steve or looking after her.

She found herself thinking of him often lately, more than she did of her husband actually, although she had been living with the loss of him for much, much longer. It made sense, she supposed, given that with the onset of the new millennium, there had been a plethora of documentaries on the greatest historical figures from the last century. Most of those focused on Captain America and his Howling Commandos, but a few attempted to dive more deeply into the life of Steven Grant Rogers, and when they did, the good ones at least, always mentioned his childhood friend, one Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

It hurt, she couldn’t deny that, to see Bucky listed as a footnote, an addendum to Captain Steven Grant Rogers’ life, when he had been so much more than that to the both of them. They mentioned his bravery and skills with a sniper rifle, but reduced his death to nothing more than yet another noble sacrifice to the war effort. They never once spoke of his wry sense of humor, keen intelligence, loyalty to the ones he loved, kindness or endless, endless gentleness. So much of who she was today was a result of Bucky, and she hated she was the only one who remembered that.

She would be the first to admit she had absolutely adored her big brother, knowing deep in the marrow of her bones he felt the same way about her. One of her earliest recollections was of him sitting on her mattress and telling her a bedtime story while carefully tucking her in. She had memories, endless memories, of him braiding her hair in the mornings before school, always spending just a little bit more time on hers than he did on Gracie’s or Daniella’s, one day tying it off with the fancy ribbon she had admired in the shop window just the week before during their walk home from school. Of the days when it had been swelteringly hot and humid, and how he would carry both her and Steve’s schoolbags home, simply because it was easier for him. How he would pick her up and spin her in the air, even when she grew far too old for it, because it made her smile, and if there was one thing Bucky loved, it was making the people he loved smile, especially when it came to her and Steve. He spoiled and indulged her, never once complaining when their mother asked him to look after her, because he was her big brother and she was his baby sister.

It was more than that though.

Bucky had always had a way about him that was protective but never suffocating. She often wondered if he developed that skill as a result of his friendship with Steve, who would snarl, spit and curse at anyone who wasn’t Bucky if they dared to treat him as something less, something weaker, because he was small and so sickly most of the time. Or if that instinct had always been there, and that was the reason why their friendship bloomed as easily at it had. Whatever it was, wherever it had come from, she definitely benefitted from it.

He had always encouraged her, never once trying to insist she be anything other than herself. He allowed her to tag along with them to a nearby park, where he patiently attempted to show her and Steve how to swing a bat, until Steve was breathless and her curls sticking to the back of her sweaty neck, never once saying girls should be more interested in playing with dolls than learning how to play baseball. He delighted in her joy of reading, identical to his own, and used to sneak her books from the library their mother would have scolded them for if she knew what they really were about. After Mrs. Rogers died, and he’d moved into a roach infested apartment with Steve, winking at her whenever she showed up at their door, frustrated and annoyed because Gracie and Daniella were fighting again. She would sit on the edge of his bed with one of his comic books or trashy pulp novels, while Steve quietly sketched at their lopsided kitchen table, and Bucky smiled a small, secret smile from where he stood by the stove, fixing dinner. He taught her how to climb trees when she was six, then up a fire escape when she was fifteen, so she could escape to their apartment, when Gracie’s and Daniella’s fighting was again loud enough to keep their entire building awake, and she needed some peace and quiet. He used to sneak her into dancehalls with him and Steve once she was old enough by his standards, but far too young by their mother’s, letting her dance to her heart’s content but always stepping in when her partner’s hands were getting just a little too familiar. And after one Saturday when the man she’d been dancing with held on a little too tightly when she tried to pull away, the very next day he met her after church, brought her home with him, and right there in his and Steve’s cramped living room, taught her how to throw a punch, twist a wrist, and most importantly according to him, knee an asshole in the balls.

“If none of that works, just do what Stevie always ends up doing,” she remembered him saying once the lessons were over.

“Kiss a wall?” she asked.

Steve’s response had been an indignant, _“Hey!”_

“She ain’t wrong, Stevie,” Bucky laughed, his smile the perfect mix of fondness and exasperation it always was whenever Steve attempted to do something everyone knew he shouldn’t have, before turning back to her. “But no, not that.”

“Then what?” she pressed, curious in spite of herself.

“Yeah Buck, what should she do that I always do?” For all he was glaring, Steve sounded just as curious as she was.

“Stevie bites,” Bucky explained, sounding absolutely delighted. “For as short as he is, he’s got some serious choppers on him. Just ask Mario Spendoza.”

“True enough,” Steve smiled a sharp smile, before returning his attention to his sketchbook.

“That’s what happened to his arm?” she asked. “Cynthia said he’s telling everyone he got bitten by a rabid dog, and that’s why he’s wearing that sling.”

“No difference, really,” Bucky shrugged.

_“Hey!”_

She laughed so hard her stomach hurt, while Bucky and Steve roughhoused on the floor, Steve proving just how serious his choppers were by sinking them into Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky had also been the only one in their family to come to her defense, when at sixteen years old she announced she wanted to finish high school and then attend teaching college, instead of looking for a husband right away.

“She’s smarter than anyone else in this family. Why shouldn’t she go?” had been his argument.

“Because she’s going to get married and then start a family,” their mother countered. “It’s only going to be a waste of her time.”

“I think Becca-Bee’s the only one who gets to decide what is or isn’t a waste of her time. If she wants to go to college, she should go to college.”

That argument had raged long into the night, neither side willing to give in. But two years later, Bucky had taken a morning off from his job down at the docks to escort her to her first day of class at Hunter College, a proud smile on his face.

“You’re gonna do great, I just know it, Becca-Bee,” he’d said, leaning down to kiss her cheek and stepping away. Before she walked through the doors, she turned to see him still standing there, smiling at her. Her heart fluttered with the lightness of pure happiness, and throbbed with the heavy weight of a quivering, aching sadness. Bucky was even smarter than her, excelling in all his classes, and had dreams of his own of attending college. But times had been rough, and their family needed money to keep food on the table, never mind the endless list of medications Steve desperately required on a constant basis. So Bucky had forewent his own hopes of a higher education to take care of his family. So damned Bucky, to do it so quietly and gracefully, as if that had been his intent all along, and she swore then and there to never give him any reason to doubt his faith in her.

He was, and always would be, her big brother. And she was and forever would be his Becca-Bee, the nickname he had given her, the only one to ever call her that, because according to him, _‘She was as sweet as honey, but would sting you something fierce if you pissed her off.’_ It was a tiny thing, that silly childhood nickname, but it was theirs, something Bucky didn’t even share with Steve, when she knew they shared everything else. No one had called her that in over fifty-six years, and at seventy-nine it still meant as much to her now as it had when she’d been five, thirteen, eighteen, twenty-four, the age she had been when he pressed a kiss to her cheek for the very last time, asking her to look after Steve for him, before boarding the ship that would take him away from his home and his family, and toward a war that, unlike Steve, he never wanted any part of.

While all those documentaries on the television mentioned her brother, branding him a hero, none of them came close to understanding what a truly good man he had been, and just how devastating his death had been for those who loved him. Even Steve.

Especially Steve, she sometimes thought.

So she supposed she could be forgiven for thinking about him as much as she had lately. But that was life, she knew. All one could do was get on with it, and try to find your happiness whenever and wherever you could. And she _was_ happy, by and large.

Although not so much this evening, she had to admit, the setting sun casting long shadows as she made her way across her back yard and toward the gardening shed, flashlight in one hand and a broom in her other. Something had crawled in there at some point, and was making a racket; it was also starting to stink. It was likely a stray cat or raccoon making itself at home, using the shed as its litterbox. She hoped it was a cat, instead of a raccoon. She’d had a hell of a time trying to get rid of that family of raccoons last year, and hoped they hadn’t decided to come back. It was probably the only thing she regretted about moving from the city and into New Jersey four years ago; all the goddamned motherfucking raccoons. They were a pain in the ass, and if they thought she had any compunctions about turning the water hose on them like she’d previously resorted to, well, she’d show them.

Except it wasn’t the hiss of a cat or the chittering of a raccoon that greeted her when she slid open the door and looked inside. She almost wished it was though, because the smell grew stronger, invasively overwhelming, making her gag as she fumbled for her flashlight. At first, she thought it was decomposing flesh, that whatever had broken into her shed had left the remains of its prey behind for her to clean up. And then she took a second breath, and realized what she was smelling was even worse; vomit, human waste, and the heavy, cloying scent of sickness. It wasn’t a _what,_ it was a _who,_ and whoever they were, they were desperately ill.

She hoped she was wrong, but knew she wasn’t, her fears confirmed when her flashlight’s beam revealed a pile of rags, too big to be anything but a person, that hadn’t been there before, huddling and shaking in the corner.

“Hey,” she called out cautious and soft, something in her heart stumbling toward compassion when they flinched at the sound of her voice. It was obvious they needed help, and she refused to just leave them here to die. She wasn’t going to take any risks or be stupid about it, but kindness never cost anybody anything, and she knew, without having to ask, this person had not been touched by kindness in far too long.

“It’s all right,” she soothed, amazed her voice didn’t tremble like the rest of her was starting to. “You can’t stay here, but no one’s going to hurt you, I promise. I’m just going to call an ambulance, and get you some help, all right? You look like you need it.” She cursed to herself silently, remembering she left her cell phone on the kitchen table. And then she found herself taking a step back and clutching her broom even tighter, because at her words the bundle shifted and grew still, focusing on her with awareness she knew hadn’t been there less than a second ago, as if it were waiting for something.

Or someone.

“Easy there, easy.” She kept her voice calm and as unthreatening as possible as she took a step back, directing the flashlight’s beam where she hoped their head would be, praying the light would be blinding enough to buy her the time she needed to get back to the house and behind a locked door.

And froze.

Her aim had been true, her flashlight’s beam hitting its intended target, revealing what she could now see was a pale man, although barely, because he was completely covered in filth; thick streaks of it on his face, heavy clumps of it in his ratty hair and beard.

But his eyes…

_His eyes,_ not just the shape of them, but their color, a pale, grey blue, she had only ever seen on two faces other than her own; her mother’s, and her…her…

And he had been dead, dead for over fifty years.

But those eyes, _those eyes,_ were staring back at her, squinting, as if just as confused as she was.

Because it couldn’t be, it wasn’t possible, and her mind _had_ to be playing tricks on her.

Then he spoke, in a voice that creaked like rotted wood, rattled like the bones from a million unmarked graves, reaching through time to wrap around her throat, prick her heart with the tip of a poisoned blade.

“Bec…Becca-Bee?”

Only one person had ever called her that. Only one other person could possibly know that name she clung to and called herself in her heart still to this very day. Only one person…

And he had died, his body left for the wolves and crows somewhere in Europe in an unmarked grave.

Except…

_Except…_

“Bucky?” she whispered, both the flashlight and broom dropping from her hands, as she fell to her knees and stared at her big brother who had finally, _finally_ come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, because it's my birthday today and since I couldn't do what I normally do (what so many of us would normally do) - see friends, go out to dinner, etc., I decided to gift you all with an extra chapter this week. The next chapter will be posted on Friday, and after that it will go back to my normal posting schedule of Tuesdays and Fridays.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this introduction to Becca. She's going to be around for a bit and will definitely play a central role in helping Bucky in his recovery. 😊


	5. 2000 - Rebecca  (Cont'd...)

When people spoke of miracles, they always claimed it was a grace, a gift from a higher power, something to be forever revered and celebrated. But they only spoke about the miracle itself, often forgetting that that grace, that gift, had come with a high price, usually a very bloody and painful one. Christ had been crucified before he was resurrected, Saint Sebastian’s arrow laden body left for dead before he could return to Rome, Buddhist monks sealed themselves away to slowly starve to death before they became Sokushinbutsu. Miracles were always painful and gruesome, coming at a cost no one should ever have to pay.

Somehow, _somehow_ , her brother was still alive, but it quickly became obvious to her the price he paid for it was brutal. And she couldn’t decide if this miracle was for him or her. But he was here, and he was somehow alive, and that was more than she’d had when she woke up that morning. She would need to remember that.

“Bucky? Is it - is it really you?” she gasped, crawling closer, ignoring the rancid stench. The longer she stared, trying to see through all the filth, the more she began to doubt her own sanity. But those eyes, his eyes, they couldn’t possibly belong to anyone else.

He was staring at her with them now, not blinking, his pupils dilated, his forehead creased with what could only be intense pain, before he gave a quick, jerky nod.

“But…but how? H-how is this even possible? You died, Bucky, I read the telegram myself,” she crept another inch forward, “and then that lady came and told us about it herself.”

“D-didn’t,” he stuttered, sounding as if even just that single word was too much for him. “W-wish I h-had. B-but d-didn’t. D-don’t know h-how, sh-shoulda, but d-didn’t.” And then he curled into a tight ball, convulsing in on himself.

  
“What’s the matter with you? Bucky, what’s wrong?” she asked, no longer able to ignore the scents of sickness and waste emanating from his body.

It took him even longer this time before he answered her, and when he finally did, she felt her heart sinking into her stomach.

“Wi-wi-withdrawals,” he finally rasped, his voice a pale, dry echo of what it used to be. Had the Army, that lady, whatever her name had been, lied to them? Had her brother somehow survived and been living on the streets as a drug addict for all this time, like so many, too many, others had, especially after the Vietnam War? How was this even possible? She would find out later, but she needed to take care of her brother first.

“Right,” she nodded, remembering her initial assessment when she first realized there was a person, and not an animal, hiding in her shed. “You stay right here. I’m going to go back to the house and get my phone, and call an ambulance. We’ll get you to the hospital and –“

“ _No!_ ” he hissed, the loudest he had spoken so far, his hand suddenly around her wrist, not hurting her, but holding on iron tight. She hadn’t even seen him move. “N-no hospitals! N-no doc-doctors!”

“But Bucky,” she hoped her voice sounded calmer than she felt. His condition was frail enough and she didn’t want to risk agitating him any more than he already was. “You’re sick, and you need a doctor. They can help you, and we’ll get you better, I swear it.”

“No!” he said again, his hand still clenched around her wrist. “No-no doctors, no hos-hospitals. N-no one can know. Th-they’ll find out, and…and come for me. C-c-can’t go b-back. Won’t go b-back. They’ll h-hurt you too. Kill…kill you to m-make me.”

“What are you talking about, Bucky?” she pressed, trying to buy herself more time. “Who would be trying to find you?”

“H-h-hydra…” he managed, before he his entire body wracked with another convulsion.

“Hydra? Like from the Greek legends?” He was delirious, hallucinating, and she didn’t think her heart could break into any more pieces, was beginning to doubt there was enough of him left to save. That didn’t mean she wasn’t going to try.

“B-b-bad. Bad-bad-badbadbad…” he trailed off.

“But you need help Bucky, more than I can give you,” she tried again.

“B-been through w-w-worse. It’ll p-pass,” he mumbled, more as if he was reminding himself than speaking to her. Looking at him, she was starkly and brutally afraid he was telling the truth. “Sh-sh-shouldn’t h-have come. But…but I wanted,” he paused to swallow a swallow so dry she could hear the clicking of his throat, “W-w-wanted to see-see you ag-gain, Becca-Bee. J-just one more t-time. S-s-selfish. Sh-shouldn’t have c-come.”

That’s when she got mad, her anger blazing so hot she saw red and her fear was replaced by fury.

“Now you listen to me, James Buchanan Barnes,” she snarled, ignoring the shit and vomit on the ground to lean over him. “I have no idea what the hell is going on, but don’t give me any bullshit about how you shouldn’t have come here. You’re my big brother, and I love you, _I will always love you_ , no matter what the hell has happened to you, and I would have kicked your ass if I found out if you went to anybody else _but me_ when you needed help. Do you understand me?” He didn’t answer her, but he did turn his face back in her direction, staring at her through dazed and bloodshot eyes.

“ _Do you understand me?_ ” she repeated into that thick and bloated silence.

“S-sound like m-m-ma,” was what he said when he did finally speak.

“Damn straight I do,” she said, feeling something in her rise, something that lived in the blood of every woman when they needed to protect their family bearing its fangs. “And I’ll kick your ass just like she used to, just try me on that one.”

He made a sound then; it may have been a gasp, a cough, or maybe even the ghost of a chuckle, and she knew then she had won.

But he wasn’t capitulating, not just yet.

“No one can…can kn-know. Can’t t-t-tell any-anyone. Not even a d-doctor. Prom-promise m-me.”

“And if I do, if I promise not to tell anyone, will you promise me that you’ll stay here and let me help you?” she countered. She would have agreed to anything, willingly surrendered everything she owned, if it meant he would let her help him. He stared at her, with a gaze that was both innocent and eldritch, world weary and newly born, for a second, a moment, a million heartbeats, before he finally nodded, and lowered his head, releasing her wrist. His hand had been so cold.

“Then I promise you too, Bucky,” she said, shifting closer to press a kiss to his brow, heedless of the swamp of sweat and filth staining his skin. “Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll find a way to fix this. It’s all right now, it’s all right. It’s going to be OK, I promise you Bucky, I promise you.”

With those words, something in him seemed to release, and with a sigh, her big brother closed his eyes and surrendered himself into her care.

***

The first night was the hardest.

She had no idea how long she sat there, just staring at the filthy pile of rags and flesh that was her brother, but for the life of her she could not make herself get up. She was certain if she moved, sneezed, so much as blinked, when she looked back he would be gone, the past forty minutes nothing more than some crazy dream that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

So she sat, and she watched, her mind strangely blank yet all of her attention focused on this impossible impossibility curled up in a ball in the corner of her garden shed. He was disturbingly still, until he suddenly wasn’t, twitching, shivering, heaving painful, shuddering gasps she felt in her own heart as if they were her own. One hour into two into three, she sat there and watched him, until a pale light began to stream through the single grimy window in the upper left-hand corner of the shed, and she realized she’d been sitting there the entire night.

It was then what little reason she had left returned to her, and reminded her that while she was still a very fit and agile seventy-nine-year-old woman _(thank-you-very-much)_ , no body was meant to sit in the same position for that long. She was going to regret that, she was already regretting it, her limbs and joints stiff and aching as she lumbered to her feet, but there were things she needed to do.

In his corner, Bucky didn’t so much as stir, and she would have thought him dead if not for the raspy sound of his breathing, cracked as glass, and just as sharp. He appeared to be sleeping, from what little she could discern, and yet she loathed the idea of leaving him. But there were things she needed to do, and sitting here with her lawnmower and spiders wasn’t getting them done, so it was time for her to get moving. Still…

“Bucky,” she pitched her voice low, so as not to startle him in case he was actually sleeping, “I’m just getting up to go into the house to get you something to eat. I won’t be long. Don’t go anywhere, OK?” She couldn’t say how, either from the stillness that was even stiller than before, or the creeping sensation slithering up her bare arms, but she knew he was awake and listening to her. “Promise me.”

More of that stillness, more of that slickly uncomfortable sensation, waiting, waiting, waiting, but for what she had no idea. Until it finally clicked, and she knew what she had to say.

“I won’t tell anyone. I promised you, remember? I’m not going to break that promise, Bucky, I’m just going to get you some food, I swear it.”

With those words, whatever it was that had been locking them together released, and the pile that was her brother shivered, and she was finally able to turn around and stumble out of the shed, making sure to close the door behind her.

It was more of a limp than the purposeful stride she had been hoping for, but with each step more and more circulation returned to her joints, easing the stiffness, and by the time she was stepping onto her back porch, she thought she resembled someone who could have passed for normal if anyone saw her.

After a quick pitstop in the bathroom to relieve herself, wash her face and hands, and run her fingers through her hair, she went into the kitchen, staring blindly around her while she took a moment _(even she could admit it was more than that)_ to gather her thoughts and decide on her next course of action.

_Food first_ , she decided with a nod. Wherever he had been, whatever it was he was going through, it was more than likely Bucky hadn’t had a good meal in a long time. She could fix that easily enough, something fast and quick, but filling, and then they’d take it from there.

Within fifteen minutes, she was striding back towards the shed, carrying a plate heaped with scrambled eggs and six pieces of buttered toast, feeling as if she’d accomplished something.

Five minutes after that, Bucky threw up the three bites of egg and half piece of toast she’d had to swear to him wasn’t poisoned before he would agree to even taste it, clumps of yellow and brown wet joining the mess of bile already on the floor.

***

The second night was the hardest.

Nothing she tried worked. White rice, apple sauce, saltine crackers, chicken broth, anything she attempted to feed him ended up back on the floor within three minutes of him swallowing it. He could keep water down, but not juice, and only if it was tepid and he took a few careful sips at a time, while she held the bottle to his parched and cracked lips. He was so weak, she was certain he would crumble to dust if she so much as looked at him, and she was terrified she was going to lose him after just getting him back.

But she stayed with him again all through the second night, still in shock, she would later realize, but mostly because something in her, something that had somehow managed to survive when everyone else she ever loved had left her behind, refused to allow her to do anything else.

***

The third night was the hardest.

Still no food, and barely any water, followed by a series of convulsions so bad she swore she heard his bones breaking when his back arched sharply enough to lift him nearly two feet off the ground.

And the worst, the absolute worst, was how he bore it all so silently, not once crying out in pain or begging for mercy, as if whatever he had been through had taken even that from him.

_Been through worse,_ he said. She hadn’t wanted to believe him then, but she couldn’t not believe him now, as she watched him twist and lurch, shiver and shake, sweat and vomit and shit himself silently, but somehow still keep breathing, as if this was what he deserved, his rightful due. In fact, the only time he did ever speak was whenever she begged him to let her call a doctor, responding with that same sharp quick _No!_ from the first night.

That was when her anger returned. Not just anger, but absolute fury. Not at Bucky, or at the world, although she was pretty pissed off at it too at the moment, but herself. She was better than this, smarter than this, always had been, and it was long past time for her to stop being a passive witness, get off her ass, and actually _do something_ about it.

Once his fit passed, and she was certain there wasn’t going to be another one, at least for a few hours she hoped, she placed another kiss to her brother’s temple, promising him she wasn’t going to call anyone and would be back in a few hours, then slowly got to her feet, and made her way back to the house.

She took a shower and washed her hair for the first time in three days _(she wasn’t smelling so great at this point either)_ , put on a fresh set of clean clothes, and over a reheated bowl of leftover chicken soup, which Bucky had failed to keep down, turned on her computer, opened up a browser, and typed _withdrawals, drug addiction recovery_ and _starvation_ into the search bar.

And all the while, as she slurped her soup and read through the results, she thought, _Enough’s enough. You wanna fuck with me? Just try it. I’ve lost everyone I ever loved. I’ll be damned if I let you take my brother from me too. Not when I just got him back._

***

The fourth, fifth and sixth nights were the hardest.

Not only did she have to deal with a desperately ill Bucky, his condition worse than she originally thought if everything she read was true, but armed with a plethora of new information, she now had even more she needed to do.

Thankfully, she always liked being kept busy, even in her retirement, and if nothing else, having something to do helped her keep her focus.

There was just so much of it.

The hardest part was leaving Bucky; she hated having to do it, even if just for a few hours at a time, especially when he looked so close to death’s door. But these things needed to be done, and there was no one else to do them. He didn’t seem to mind, or more likely probably didn’t have the awareness to notice, whenever she told him she would be leaving him alone, _just for a little while, Bucky, I promise,_ for a few hours every day.

She spent the next three days, whenever she wasn’t sitting with her brother, going to the grocery store to purchase bottled water, sports drinks, Ensure, bananas and potatoes. She made sure her first aid kit was stocked up, adding heartburn and anti-diarrhea medications. She needed to head over to Trenton, a half hour drive away, to find a pharmacy that carried the metabolic salt packs she was looking for, but while there she bought extra towels, linens and blankets, and soft clothes she thought would fit her brother. It took her longer than originally planned, and she couldn’t help her nervousness as she made her way back to the shed, but her brother was still there, and he was able to drink and keep down the entire bottle of water and salts, as long as she gave him only a few mouthfuls at a time.

Once those tasks were complete, she aired out and changed the sheets on the bed in the guest bedroom, called the instructors of both her yoga and aqua-aerobics classes to inform them that due to feeling a bit under the weather, _no, no, nothing serious, just a bit of a stomach bug, I’m fine, no worries,_ she wouldn’t be attending the next couple of sessions. After that, she turned her attention back to her unexpected guest and the shed he was living in.

She wanted to bring him back into the house, but as of yet he was too weak to make it on his own. And while she was strong and surprisingly fit for her age, she knew she didn’t have the strength to carry him on her own. But that did not mean he had to live in squalor. And while the houses in her area were spread out enough to provide plenty of privacy, the smell really was horrendous. So, trying to be as careful as she could, she carried bucket after bucket of hot water into the shed, and scrubbed the vomit, piss and shit from the floors, while doing her best not to disturb Bucky’s nest.

It was funny, how he interacted with her, or more precisely, allowed her to interact with him. He was complacent whenever she came close enough to feed him, but would shy away from any further physical contact, curling in even further on himself, as if he were a wounded animal that expected a kick instead of kindness. And he absolutely refused to allow her to touch the rags he was covered in. She ended up having to work around him, cleaning what she could, the floors, the walls, even the grimy little window, which she propped open so he could get some fresh air. It took her more than four hours to finish, and it wasn’t perfect, but it was better than it had been and would have to do.

After that, well, after that came the hardest part, which was leaving him behind so she could shower then crawl into her own bed, exhausted and drained from the day.

He didn’t seem to begrudge her those absences, although she certainly begrudged them herself. It was hard, so hard to turn her back on him and walk away, even though it was less than thirty feet in total. But she needed to sleep and eat, keep up her strength, so even though it wasn’t easy, the farthest thing from easy in truth, it still needed to be done.

She just wished she didn’t feel like she was closing the lid on his coffin every time she closed the door.

***

The next two weeks were the hardest.

For all that she kept researching, watching over Bucky, telling herself she was doing all she could, patience had never been a virtue of hers, and she had no idea if what she was doing was actually helping.

The water mixed with the metabolic salt packs seemed to be working at any rate, and within a few days Bucky could hold down a few sips of the Ensure as well, although not too many. He was vomiting less, and she thought his sweat was starting to smell better. Not good, far from it, but definitely less rank than it had been.

There were still the convulsions and fits, as his body purged itself of the cocktail of poisons it had been living on, which he always endured silently. Those were the worst, and all she could do was sit there, her hands clamped over her mouth, tears streaming down her face. More than once, she would sworn he stopped breathing, the air heavy and still until it was broken by a series of soft pants that released her, released them both, like a sudden crack of thunder. She hated it, and if she had been a lesser woman, she would have fled. But she wasn’t, never had been, and if Bucky could bear it then so could she.

It also gave her a deeper understanding of her brother, and how he must have felt all those nights he spent perched on the edge of Steve’s bed, watching him like a hawk, begging him to, _‘Please, Stevie, just take another breath, just one more. For me, if nothing else. Please Stevie, please.’_ How painful that must have been for him, and yet Bucky never once abandoned Steve when everyone else was so certain Steve was a lost cause.

She could do no less. So she sat with her brother, as he used to sit with Steve, watching, waiting, hoping he could feel all the love for and belief she had in him, and said the exact same things.

“Please, Bucky, just take another breath, just one more. For me, if nothing else. Please Bucky, please.”

He always did, so there must have some magic in that litany she repeated over and over and over again.

It was five days of that, five horrible, brutal days she thought would never end. Until they did, and what came next was even worse.

She didn’t know if it was the fluids and the nutrients they contained doing their job, or if it was the last, brutal tears of poison his body needed to purge, but as the eleventh day of Bucky’s return bled into the twelfth, Rebecca found herself missing the silence that had come before.

Because Bucky started talking, his voice never rising above a whisper, but all the worse because it never did. At first, it was in a language she didn’t recognize. She thought it might be Russian after a careful listen. But then it shifted into something else, and then again into a different language after that. She couldn’t understand any of it; it was as if he were speaking in tongues. But while she couldn’t make out the words, from their tone she could more than intuit their meaning, and learned that sorrow and misery was a universal language everyone could understand.

Bucky was pleading, whimpering, begging, begging, endlessly begging for a mercy that obviously never came. Tears streaming down his cheeks as he called to god, for their mother, for someone, _anyone_ , to please make it stop. Something had been done to him, something she couldn’t even begin to comprehend, turning him into this shivering wreck of a human soul on the floor of her garden shed, a forgotten soldier fighting a never-ending battle, more than fifty years later.

There were no words to describe how horrible it was. But Bucky had endured it, somehow, so she would bear witness, and hope her brother, who had always been the strongest person she knew, would be strong enough to find his way back to her.

She would never know how he survived it, how they both did, eight days spent trapped in the coldest circle of hell. But somehow they did. As the sun set on the nineteenth night since Bucky’s homecoming, he stopped crying out for a mercy that had never come, finally falling into a deep and quiet sleep.

And on the twentieth day, another miracle happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank everyone for the kind birthday wishes in the comments from the last chapter. They were GREATLY appreciated. 
> 
> I know I owe a few of you responses on Tumblr or emails, but until things settle here in the US I'm staying away from all social media. Know that I will respond, but in the interim I hope all of you enjoy this next chapter and are hanging in there. 💙


	6. 2000 - Rebecca  (Cont'd...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **points to the body horror tag** There are some graphic descriptions regarding Bucky's physical condition in this chapter, and because I know everyone is still dealing with lots of things right now, I wanted to give you all a warning and the chance to skip this chapter in case you're not in the right place for it right now. Please take care of you; you're what's most important.
> 
> Also, this chapter is probably the darkest one in the entire story, but after this things start to get better, I promise. =)

The second thing about miracles people often forgot was sometimes they were small. But just because they were small did not mean they were any less miraculous. In fact, the best miracles were probably the smallest ones, a cupful of grace you could carry in your palm so you could keep it close, keep it safe. And while she had long ago lost her faith, more than likely on the day she’d been told her brother had fallen to his death from a train, Rebecca knew how to recognize a miracle when one crossed her path.

Which was what she saw when she returned to the shed on the twentieth evening, just after sunset, a bottle of premixed water in one hand and a can of Ensure in the other, to find Bucky propped up against the wall, staring at her.

“Hey,” she said softly, unable to stop her smile. “How are you feeling?” While he looked far from good, truthfully even worse than when she first discovered him, there was a presence to his gaze, an awareness she hadn’t seen in far too long. He did not answer her, merely blinked, but his eyes tracked her as she came closer, shaking the bottle of water. “Probably not great, huh?” she continued, lowering herself to her knees, “but that’s OK. You’ve had a rough couple of weeks.” Still no response, but truth be told she was surprised he managed to make it this far, and she would take anything she could get. She inched forward, twisting the cap off the bottle and taking two sips of it before holding it out to him. He continued watching her for a few more seconds, before reaching for it. His fingers, blackened with dirt, looked more like claws than anything belonging to a human, and they were trembling. Yet somehow he managed to bring the water to his lips.

“Only a few sips at a time,” she reminded him. “And if you can manage that, you can have the Ensure next.” Thankfully, he heeded her words, and after a few tense and bated swallows, it looked like he was going to keep it down. It was definitely an improvement. Even better, after that he was able to do the same with the protein drink. It was the most he’d been able to drink so far, and something in her relaxed just the slightest of fractions. She sat with him in the silence, waiting to see what he would do next. Still no vomiting, nor did he say anything to her, but the alertness remained, as he took in his surroundings, his gaze darting from the wall to her face to the opposite wall and back to her face.

“Do you know where you are?” she asked, keeping her voice soft, soothing; for all that he was alert now, it was the alertness of a startled animal, and after the past three weeks, she wanted to keep him as calm as possible. Still no answer, but his eyes never strayed far from her face.

“Do you know who I am?” she tried. Again no response, and she felt her heart sinking. But she’d always been a stubborn woman, unabashedly so, and she wasn’t going to give up now, not when Bucky had defied the odds and made it this far. Not when the stakes were so much more important than anything that had come before. “I’m your sister, Rebecca,” she went on, making sure to keep the smile on her face, “and you’re in my house. Well, technically my shed, but somehow you made it here. I have no idea how, they told us you were dead, but somehow you found your way home.” She paused to wipe her eyes, force down the sob threatening to burst from her throat; her brother needed her, now was not the time for weakness or sentimentality. He kept his silence, but he was definitely watching her. She took a deep breath, then another, and with a nod, pulled her shoulders back.

“Right,” one final sniff, one more forceful swallow of all that bitter grief down her throat, because there were things she needed to do. “You’ve been here for almost three weeks, but you can’t stay here anymore.” That got a reaction out of him, a blink, followed by another scan of the walls, this time with a sudden edge of wariness. “No, no, no,” she soothed, realizing her mistake, lifting her hands and holding her palms open to show she meant no harm. “Jesus, Bucky, you don’t have to leave. I didn’t mean that. I just meant we should probably get you into the house. You’re not looking so great, and I have to admit, you smell even worse,” she paused to again smile at him, showing she meant no insult. “You can take a shower, get cleaned up. Then we can figure out what we’re going to do next. How does that sound? Do you think you can manage it?” He was watching her, his gaze still sharp, still wary, yet somehow, without any words, she knew he was waiting for something. It took her too long to figure it out, and when she finally did, she wanted to shout all the words he wasn’t saying, curse the world for what it had done to him. But it wasn’t time for that, not yet, maybe not ever, and he needed her, had found his way back to her for some reason; the only reason she could give him, the only reason why he would have sought her out in the first place.

“You’re safe here, Bucky,” she swore to him. She didn’t care how many times she needed to say it; a hundred, a million, a billion. She would say it again and again, until her voice was hoarse, until he believed her, until there could be no possible doubt she would set the world on fire if she had to. She would do anything, _anything for him_ , no matter what it was. “I promise you. No one knows you’re here. I haven’t told a single soul, and I never will, unless you want me to. Now can we please, _please_ get out of here, and get you into the house? _Please?_ ”

He stared at her, his eyes that endless, endless icy blue that could cut glass, burn like fire, or grow as soft as velvet, depending upon his mood, until he blinked again, slower this time, before with a silent heave, he gathered himself, slowly rose to his feet and followed her to the house.

***

Later, she would look back and wonder how the hell they ever made it across her yard. Upright for the first time, Bucky resembled a twisted, rotted pile of dirt and leaves, something more akin to the monsters from the comic books they used to share, and had he not been her brother, just as terrifying. He took slow, shambling steps, that were eerily silent as he trailed behind her, a lopsided lumbering figure dragging a bag she hadn’t noticed before behind him on the ground. It took him far too long to make it up the steps of her porch, only three of them, but somehow he managed it, ignoring the offer of her out-stretched hand. He paused again at the door, as if hesitant to cross the threshold and into its light, doubtful of his welcome. She supposed it made sense; he had spent three weeks in a dark corner of her shed, somehow surviving, and who knew how long before that living in the shadows. She would have felt the same way. But it was time, long past time, for him to return to the land of the living, for however long he had left.

The light did him no favors. If anything, it made him look worse. It was hard to determine the shape of him, his edges, buried as he was beneath his shroud of rags and dirt. He barely resembled a man, and she hated to admit she would have probably not noticed him if she passed him on the street. There was something scarecrow, crooked about him, as he stood in her kitchen, hunched over himself, blinking against the light. It was the first opportunity she had to actually look at him, and to her dismay she discovered it wasn’t just mud and grime clinging to him, but living things as well, fleas and lice most likely. She quickly banished that thought; she had plenty of experience getting rid of those things in the past, they could be dealt with, eliminated. Her brother’s health and well-being were much more important.

With that in mind, she course corrected, and instead of leading him to her bathroom, she grabbed another can of Ensure, popped the tab, and took a few sips before holding it out to him with what she hoped was an encouraging, “ _Slowly._ ”

As she watched him drink, she remembered it had been nearly two weeks since he’d last consumed anything, and found herself wondering how the hell he was standing, much less managed to walk across her yard. But somehow he was, somehow he had, and the calories couldn’t hurt, as long as he didn’t end up vomiting. Thankfully he didn’t, although he did only drink half of the can, before lowering it slowly and staring at her as if he were waiting for something. As if, and this was another horrifying thought to add to pile of them she’d already gathered, he was waiting for her to tell him what to do next.

“Right, let’s get you into the shower then,” she forced herself to smile, hoping he wouldn’t be able to see the tears her smile hid, before turning and leading him out of the kitchen. Her white house was not what anyone would consider grandiose; the front door opened into a tiny sitting area, that led into the larger living room, which flowed into a small dining area, separated from the kitchen by a waist-high island. There was only one bathroom, and the master bedroom which she used to share with Bobbi, but where she now slept alone, and a smaller second bedroom, for any guests or the children her brain had let go of but perhaps her heart truly never had. In that second bedroom, there was a pull-down staircase that led to a cramped and dusty attic where she stored the bric-a-brac one collected over a lifetime, but nothing else. It didn’t even have a garage, just a carefully tended driveway where she parked her Toyota Corolla. It was far from the fanciest of homes, but it had big windows in all the rooms to let in the light, a lovely back porch with a swing, and a yard where she grew hydrangeas, tulips and hyacinth. It was the perfect little retirement cottage for a couple to nest in, while they did all of the things they planned and saved for, and she’d fallen in love with it the moment she first stepped inside.

She was grateful for its small size now, as she led Bucky to the bathroom, flicking on the light switch and waving him through. She watched him do another quick but thorough scan of the room, taking in the blue and white tile, clean sink, and shower curtains that were closed around the tub, before his gaze returned to her. With yet another sinking feeling, she realized that once again he was waiting for her to tell him what to do.

“It’s just a shower, Bucky.” She tried to smile as she stepped past him, pushed the curtain aside, and turned on the taps, making sure the water was nice and warm before she glanced back at him. “Do you…do you remember what a shower is?” Her brother used to be so fastidious, always making sure to scrub himself thoroughly, even if the water had long since grown cold, because he wanted to make sure Steve had the opportunity to take advantage of the steam. What could have possibly happened to him that he’d lost even that aspect of his personality that was once so central to who he was? Would he even be able to bathe himself, given the state he was in?

“Do you need my help?” She would if she had to; after everything he’d done for her in the past, she would gladly do it. But that, at least, did not seem to be necessary. He did not answer her, stepping forward instead, his hands reaching for what must have been his waistband beneath the rags covering him. This time she did not hide her sigh of relief. At least it was something.

“Right then,” she straightened. “There’s soap and shampoo on the shelf, and the water tank’s huge, so there’ll be plenty of hot water. Take all the time you need. Just leave your…what you’re wearing on the floor, I’ll take care of it later. I’m going to get you some clean clothes, I’ll leave them right outside the door, but call me if you need any help.” With that, she turned around and left the bathroom, closing the door behind her to give Bucky his privacy.

She was going to burn those clothes the first chance she got.

***

Horror, she soon discovered, was not just something read about in comics, novels, or watched from the comfort of your seat in a movie theatre. It wasn’t what you were told during the nightly newscasts, or saw in photographs in history books or newspapers. Even though her life had been hard, filled with its own losses and challenges, horror was still something that happened to other people.

Or at least it was until the sixteenth day of April, during the seventy-ninth year of her life. And she would never, ever forget the day true horror first manifested herself in front of her eyes.

While Bucky was in the shower, she spent her time gathering clothes for him to wear, a set of soft flannel pajamas, underwear and socks, which she’d been storing in a bureau in the guest bedroom since she purchased them, leaving them just outside the bathroom door. Then she turned her attention to mopping the kitchen floor and back porch clean of the dirt he’d trailed after him. She debated going back out to do the same to the shed and the mess he’d been living in, but did not want to risk being unable to hear him if he called for help. It took her forty-five minutes in total, and once finished she realized she hadn’t heard the water in the shower for the past ten minutes, and Bucky still had not come out from the bathroom. She wanted to respect his privacy, but the continuing silence was worrying, so she decided to check up on him.

She almost wished she hadn’t.

The door was closed and the clothes still on the floor where she’d left them, and there wasn’t a single sound coming from inside the bathroom. More worried now, she bent over to scoop up the clothes, knocked on the door, announced, “Bucky, are you alright? I’m just coming in to check on you,” and stepped inside.

She would never, ever forget what she saw when she did.

The figure that stood there may have once been her brother, once been human, but now resembled nothing so much as a living skeleton. She’d seen pictures of survivors from concentration camps after they were freed, and they’d had more flesh on their bodies than Bucky did. Calling him a survivor would have been kind.

She could see every single one of his bones in excruciating detail, each ridge, knob and crest. Bone and sinew, sinew and bone, held together by a tissue thin layer of skin, was all that was left of him. It was obvious he had cleaned himself, but that somehow made it worse. His skin was grey, bruised at the points where his bones protruded, all of it pulled tight as if trying to collapse in on itself.

And then there was his left arm, and the reason why his gait had been so uneven. Fused into his shoulder by a thick, blood-red spiderweb of scarring was a monstrosity unlike anything she had ever seen before. Made of metal, it gleamed in the light, a horrific mimicry of overlapping scales, or maybe plates, resembling a fully formed arm, ending in five perfectly shaped fingers. The heft and weight of it must have been tremendous, or at least too much for Bucky’s body to bear, and as a result his spine and shoulders were twisted as he attempted to remain upright.

If that was not bad enough, did not want to make her hide under her bed like she hadn’t since she’d been five years old, he simply stood there, without a single ounce of modesty or any emotion on his face, as if presenting himself to her for inspection.

She had seen her brother naked plenty of times when they were younger, just as he had seen her. Growing up, they hadn’t been well-off, but they hadn’t been poor. But the Great Crash, followed by the Depression affected everyone, and there had been six of them living in a much too small two-bedroom apartment. While they tried to be respectful of each other’s boundaries, oftentimes privacy was just not an option, especially on mornings when they were all rushing to get ready for school or work. Sometimes there would be shocked yelps, sometimes curses, and sometimes laughter, but they had all learned to accept it as a part of life. That did not mean anyone lingered, or didn’t turn their back for propriety’s sake, but neither did they flaunt it.

Yet Bucky did none of those things, simply stood there, his shoulders uneven, his wrists crossed over the cave of his abdomen, his hands, one of clawed bone and the other of metal, open and loose. Even worse, his head was lowered in what could be nothing but an obscene gesture of absolute submission, drops of water from his still matted hair and beard leaving shiny rivulets on his skin.

“Oh Bucky, what the hell happened to you?” was the only thing she could say, her feet frozen, the bundle of clothes she’d been carrying forgotten on the floor. He didn’t answer her, didn’t move, just stood there, a woodcut of living death, dripping onto her bathroom floor.

***

She came back to herself, pulled herself from the horrors she was seeing with a slow, shuddering shiver, and remembered the reason why she had come into the bathroom in the first place. Mortification was not a luxury she could afford right now, and there were things she needed to do, that Bucky needed her to do for him, if he was going to survive the night, and action was always easier than introspection. It would give her purpose, drown out the shrieking howls in her heart, and she would use that to keep going.

“Let’s get you dressed,” she decided, bending over to pick up the pajamas and kneeling in front of him. She forewent the underwear, knowing they wouldn’t fit, and instead held the pants open for him to step into. They were definitely going to be too big for him, but they were all she could offer and would have to do. “Come on, left leg,” _bones, bones, bones_ as he slowly lifted his leg to step into them, “Good, now the right,” _bones, bones, bones,_ as he slowly lifted the other one. Then she was standing, slowly bring the pants up with her, trying to be as gentle as possible. “Now the shirt.” She didn’t bother asking him to lift his left arm, merely slid it through the sleeve, noticing the red star on his deltoid for the first time, before carefully, carefully, _carefully_ draping it over his shoulders so she could do the same on his right. She could not help but notice how the pajamas hung on his frame, like clothes on a hanger, as she worked the buttons closed, but at least he was dressed, his brutalized body hidden from view. Her fingers knotted in the fabric as she stood there, her own head lowered while she took three deep breaths, before she dared to lift her gaze and meet his eyes with her own.

“Do you think you could eat something? Or at least drink some more Ensure?” She was surprised by the cheerful chirp she could hear in her voice, obviously false, but it was either that or start screaming. “Because I really think we need to get more food into you. So how about we go do that, huh?”

There was no answer, but once she managed to let go of his shirt, he followed her into the kitchen and drank another can of Ensure, which he managed to keep down. Then it was just the two of them, sitting at her small kitchen table, her eyes locked on him, his head bowed, the ticking of the old clock in her living room the only sound in the world.

“Right,” she said, after the silence became thick enough to choke on. “Why don’t we both turn in for the night? Because I have to be honest with you Bucky, you look like a light breeze would blow you over, and I have no idea what the hell is going on. We’ll both sleep on it, and figure out what to do in the morning. How does that sound to you?”

Again there was no response, but once again, he followed her as she led him to the second bedroom she prepared for him.

“This one’s yours,” she told him, holding the door open. It wasn’t much, but it was clean and airy, with bright yellow walls and a freshly scrubbed hardwood floor. It had a decent sized closet, a chest of drawers, and a small night table, upon which sat a reading lamp. There was an oval throw rug, lace curtains in the window, and the twin sized bed covered in thick, warm blankets, and an abundance of pillows. She hoped he would like it, feel comfortable there, but had a sinking suspicion none of it would make a difference given his current state. Still, at least he was out of that fucking shed.

“You know where the bathroom is, and my room is just across the hall. Try to get a good night’s sleep Bucky, I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll figure all of this out then, OK?” She stepped forward to place a kiss to his cheek, but before she was within a foot of him, he flinched, a microscopic thing, but noticeable to her, especially since it was the only reaction she’d gotten from him thus far. So instead she stepped back, smiled at him one last time, and closing the door behind her, left him standing in the middle of the bright yellow bedroom, to creep into her own, bury her face into her pillow, and quietly sob her heart out.

***

That night something in Rebecca Barnes-Proctor died.

No, not died, or even went dormant. Instead, it was if something else came to take its place, a shedding of a skin that no longer fit, to reveal something new, something fierce, that more than likely had been there all along and was just waiting to be summoned, for its chance to be freed. The roar of a lion, the howl of a dragon, the screech of a firebird. It burst from her, not caring that the body containing it was that of a woman quickly approaching her eighties.

It had risen and it would not be denied.

_Anything you’ve done, I can undo,_ it said. _He is of my line, blood of my blood, borne from the same womb, and I love him like no other. You stole him from me, but you don’t get to keep him. And I will bring him back, even if it’s the last fucking thing I ever do._


	7. 2000 - Rebecca  (Cont'd...)

The next morning, newly awoken, after a quick shower and cup of coffee, she walked to Bucky’s room, knocked on the door and called out, “Bucky, I hope it’s alright, but I’m coming in,” and stepped inside.

He was standing, almost exactly where she’d left him, and she would have thought he had stood there all night, if not for the rumples in his pajamas, and the heap of blankets and single pillow in a pile on the floor. Apparently he hadn’t slept in the bed. She wasn’t going to allow herself to be surprised, or even grieve over it, because at least he was still in the house, and that was more than she’d had yesterday.

Instead she just smiled at him, and said, “Good morning Bucky. Come on, let’s go have some breakfast.”

After he drank an entire bottle of water and a can of Ensure, while she nibbled on some toast and fruit, she leaned back in her chair and once again studied him. The morning light certainly didn’t do him any favors, but his appearance was less shocking than the night before. It still hurt to look at him, especially now she could see how sunken and bloodshot his eyes were. And then there was his hair and beard, even more matted and tangled than she remembered it. But that could wait; there were other things she needed to deal with first.

“Bucky,” she said softly, trying to sound as unthreatening as possible. “I want you to know that I’m not mad at you, OK? And that I am so, so happy you’re here. Happier than I’ve ever been about anything. And I want to help you, I swear to you that I do. But in order to do that, I need you to tell me what’s happened to you. You shouldn’t be here, but somehow you are, and that’s a miracle. But you’re very, very sick, and you’ve got that-that metal arm,” she paused to swallow, “and if I am going to help you, which I want to, more than anything, I’m going to need some answers, or else I won’t know where to start.”

Nothing. Not a word, a sound, or even a blink. Just the silence that had surrounded him since the previous evening.

“Can you please tell me, Bucky? I’ll do anything for you, you know that I would, or else you wouldn’t have come here, but I need answers.” She shifted forward, trying to catch his gaze. In response, he lowered his head even further, avoiding eye contact. “Please Bucky, I’m begging you. Please.”

In the end, all of her begging, pleading and reasoning proved futile. Nothing she did or said garnered any response. The only time she got a reaction was when out of frustration she raised her voice, and he immediately flinched, curling even further inward if that were possible. Wherever he was, he was out of her reach, and refusing to come out.

“It’s alright Bucky, it’s alright. I’m sorry, I’m not mad at you,” she finally had to concede. “I’m just worried, that’s all. But we’ll figure something out, I promise.” Although she had no idea how. “Why don’t you go sit on the couch? I’ll put the TV on and you can watch that while I do some housework, and then we can have some lunch.”

It went on like that for the next two weeks, with her asking question after question, and he never once responding. While something in her had been born, it quickly became obvious that whatever was left of Bucky, had been enough of a motivator to seek her out, had died, or at least gone dormant. He was not quite catatonic, but it was close enough. He ate when she told him to eat, or more precisely drank when she told him to drink. As of yet, he still could not keep down any food, as she discovered the morning she tried to feed him a few slices of banana, but he managed the Gatorade when she replaced his water with it. He showered when she instructed him to, and at least dressed himself in the pajamas she left on top of the closed toilet lid. He went to bed when she did, and was always standing, waiting for her, when she knocked on his door in the mornings. But other than that, he sat on the couch, staring blankly in front of him, not responding to anything she tried.

She refused to give up though. She talked to him, as much as she could, whenever they sat together for meals, or while she did housework, telling him what she was doing. She switched the programs on the television, sitcoms, game shows, movies, to see if anything garnered a reaction. When that didn’t work, she tried reading to him; books from when they were growing up and newer novels she thought he might enjoy. When she needed a break, she turned the radio to a classical music station, while she sat at her computer and searched for any information she could find that would help him.

That was when she realized her first mistake.

When he’d first shown up in her shed, after her initial round of research, her primary concern had been refeeding syndrome. While he still could not keep down any solid foods, he appeared to have no problems with the Ensure. But each can contained two-hundred or so calories, and she was only giving those to him whenever she sat down to eat. Given his height, and what she remembered of his former weight, it was nowhere near enough to sustain him, never mind help him increase his bodyweight, and she had no idea how he was managing to stand or walk. She cursed her own carelessness, and resolved to do better.

That night, she gave him two cans for dinner. When he didn’t vomit, the following morning she did the same, always watching, checking to make sure the increased intake wasn’t overwhelming his systems. Two days after that, she upped his feeding schedule to four times a day, then increased it to five two days after that, and then to six two days later.

It probably still wasn’t enough, but almost immediately she noticed a difference. 

He began to lose his grey pallor, his skin slowly bleeding over into a whiteness that was still too pale, but better, so much better, than the ashy tones it had been. His eyebrows and eyelashes started to grow in, their lack something else she hadn’t noticed before given his overall condition. But more noticeably, and infinitely more important to her, his shoulders began to straighten out, in slow increments yes, but she would take them, as it was an obvious sign he was becoming stronger. He started to smell better, losing the sickly odor no amount of showering could wash away, and while still too skinny by far, his skin no longer resembled cracked and dry parchment, smoother on his hand, wrist and what little she could see of his face.

It was a drastic improvement over the course of a mere ten days, one that shouldn’t have been possible, but at this point she would gratefully accept anything she could get.

Two days after that, she tried something new, mixing two cans of Ensure, a banana, just a bit of milk and some protein powder in her blender, before serving it to Bucky for breakfast. He struggled with it at first, as if his throat was unused to the texture, but by sipping at it slowly eventually managed to consume the entire glass. Then she did it again, and again, and again, and again, throughout the course of the day.

A week later, after a quick prayer to whatever deities might be listening, came a second victory, when she placed a spoon and a single ice cream scoop of mashed potatoes on a plate in front of him, and with a hopeful smile said, “Try this.”

He appeared confused at first, as though solid food was something incomprehensible to him, and she needed to demonstrate what she wanted him to do by eating from her own bowl. But eventually, eventually, he mimicked her movements, and managed to consume the entire scoop of potatoes, along with his usual shake, and not throw it up.

That day was the onset of the next turning point in their lives. She began to add small portions of solid foods to each of his meals, always accompanied by the shakes, and within a week could include more things to the list of items he was able to eat; white rice, bananas, saltines then plain toast. She replaced the milk in his shakes with cream, and added a handful of blueberries along with a second spoonful of the protein powder. The morning he managed to consume an entire bowl of hot cereal, with just the tiniest drizzle of honey, she would have hollered in glee, if she hadn’t known it would have startled him.

The second shift in his condition once she started to incorporate solid food into his diet was even more drastic than the previous one. His skin-tone improved, still ghoulish, but less drastic than before. His hair continued to grow, still a matted and ragged mess, but it _was_ growing. He also spent a lot of time sleeping, usually falling asleep on the couch immediately after every meal. It would have concerned her, but their own mother, and even Mrs. Rogers, had both been big proponents of sleep, saying it was the best thing a body could do when it needed to heal.

All of those things would have been wonderful hallmarks, things she was undeniably grateful for. But there were even more changes, subtle to anyone not looking for them, but no less remarkable.

The first, and perhaps most obvious, was Bucky’s body. Now that she was providing him with enough calories, he began to quickly put on weight. Not just weight, which she would have been more than happy with, but long, ropey muscle, that shouldn’t have been possible given his level of activity. His posture straightened, his shoulders balancing out, and his steps were no longer shambling, but steady and silent. Even his hair, as it continued to grow, was not grey or the white it should have been, but the rich, warm, chocolatey browns he’d had when they were younger. Given his age, four years older than her, and the state he’d been in when she first discovered him, there should have been a multitude of complications; issues with his heart, problems with his vision, hearing, balance and coordination. The most she’d been honestly hoping for was to make sure he was comfortable in the last few years of his life. But there was none of that, absolutely none of what her research told her should be there. His body wasn’t just healing, it was regenerating itself somehow, before her very eyes, and that left her with even more questions than she originally had. It didn’t make any fucking sense, and had her doubting her own sanity at times.

And that was far from the only thing that changed as April crawled into May and then into June. Slowly but surely, an awareness began to return to her brother. He still didn’t speak, but now when she puttered about the house, or prepared their dinner, she could feel him watching her. His head was always lowered when she looked back at him, but she just knew, by a feeling on the back of her neck, a sense of stillness in the air, he’d been studying her. He was paying attention to whatever she put on the television, instead of just sitting on the couch and staring blankly ahead. Once she even caught him tilting his head toward the radio when a Billie Holiday song came on, his face expressionless, except for his eyes, which were alert. Every time he entered a room, no matter how many times he’d been there before, he would take a second to study it before he stepped forward. Again, subtle, but she was training herself to notice the subtleties.

That proved to be one of the smartest decisions she ever made, because that attention allowed her to recognize when Bucky began to communicate with her. It wasn’t much, but it was there once she taught herself how to look for it. If she asked him a direct question, Bucky would lower his head ever so slightly when he meant _yes_ , and minutely turn his gaze to the side when his answer was _no_.

Are you ready for lunch, Bucky? _Yes._

Did you sleep in your bed last night? _No._

It simultaneously delighted and saddened her. Delighted, because her brother was still in there somewhere, or at least a piece of him was. And saddened, because whenever he said _yes_ , it was an act of submission, and when he dared to respond _no_ , with the way his shoulders also tightened ever-so-lightly, it quickly became obvious he was expecting to be punished, no matter how many times she assured him he wouldn’t be.

Baby steps, but she could not help but feel they were encouraging, even if they sometimes broke her heart.

There was the first day she returned to her yoga class. With Bucky no longer at death’s door, she decided it was time to slowly start to reclaim some of her life. She wasn’t abandoning Bucky, she never would, but everything she’d read during her research was adamant that a caregiver needed to remember to take care of themselves, or else they would suffer from burnout, and be no good to anybody. Thus, with Bucky obviously recovering, she decided to give herself a few carefully decided upon breaks. It was a difficult decision for her to make, but she missed her walks, yoga and aqua-aerobics classes, and knew she needed both the physical and mental freedom.

The first Monday she left for anything other than a quick grocery run, after assuring him she would “ _Only be gone for an hour, an hour and a half at the most, I promise you,_ ” she returned home feeling energized and with a clearer head, only to find the lights off, all the curtains drawn, and Bucky standing behind the door, frantic and devastated.

“Oh Bucky,” she sighed, reaching to hug him. He still refused to be touched, and immediately stepped back, his eyes desperately scanning her. “I’m sorry if you were worried, but I told you I’d be back. It was just for a little while, like when I go to pick up our groceries. And it helps keep me fit. I’m not as young as I used to be, you know.”

Nothing she said helped, and he spent the rest of the day huddled on the couch, curled in a tight little ball. From the dark circles under his eyes the next morning, darker than usual, she also knew he hadn’t slept that night. But she kept going, she needed to, for both her physical and mental well-being, and he eventually grew used to it, even if he was always waiting for her by the door, where no one could see him, she couldn’t help but notice, whenever she came back.

Then came the day when she decided enough was enough, and they needed to do something about his hair. The mats on his head and beard grew coarser every day, and she was certain they were painful. And the Bucky she remembered would have been disgusted by his appearance. So two weeks after she started going back to her classes, she decided it was long past time to address the issue.

“Don’t you think we should do something about your hair?” she posed the question to him right after breakfast. No response, not even an eye-flick. “You always used to be so vain about your hair, and that can’t be comfortable for you. I also need to make sure all the lice are gone.” She had purchased a special shampoo, but his hair was so thick, so knotted, she couldn’t be certain they were all gone. “I don’t think a comb can get through all of that,” she nodded at his head, “so we’re probably going to have to cut it. Would that be all right with you? Would you let me cut your hair, Bucky?”

Head down, eyes lowered, _yes_. She could not help the relief she felt.

“Good,” she smiled to show her approval. “You sit there and I’ll be right back. I’m just going to get a comb and a pair of scissors, and we’ll see what we can do about that disaster living on your head.”

Except, after she returned, and positioned him in a chair so she could stand behind him, the instant she lifted the scissors he panicked, fleeing the room, overturning the chair in his haste to escape.

She found him in the attic, huddled behind the boxes of her stored Christmas decorations, wedged into the corner, his eyes wide in absolute terror. She wasn’t even aware he knew about the attic; it had never occurred to her to show him. But there he was, gasping and afraid, in the middle of what quickly became clear was a panic attack.

What the hell had been done to him to cause such a reaction?

“Oh Bucky,” she murmured, crawling as close to him as she dared. “I never meant to frighten you, it’s the last thing I ever want to do. And I would never, _ever_ hurt you. I would never even _think_ of it. I am so, so sorry. Please forgive me.”

He spent the rest of the day, and all of the following night up there, only coming down when she called to let him know breakfast was ready. And when he finally emerged, he still looked terrified, as if once again he was expecting to be punished for his actions.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Bucky,” she assured him. “That was my fault, and I’m so, so sorry.” She must have repeated those words at least a hundred times, before his shoulders finally unclenched and he slowly reached for his bowl of now cold oatmeal.

Five days, and a hell of a lot of research about PTSD and triggers later, she attempted a different approach.

“Do you think you’d be able to do it yourself?” she asked, sliding Bobbi’s old clippers across the table in front of him. “Whenever you’re ready, and only as much as you can. And if you can’t, that’s OK too,” she made sure to assure him. “I just thought it might make you feel better.”

He said nothing, did nothing with his eyes, but three days later, when she came home from aqua-aerobics, all of his hair, including his beard, was shaved away.

The face that stared back at her, while sallow and still too thin, was the face she had last seen fifty-six years ago, when she stood on the docks next to Steve, and kissed her big brother goodbye.

***

She decided not to think about that for now.

Because it just couldn’t be possible, it couldn’t…

Couldn’t it?

***

In the end, she was unable to make her mind about whether it was an improvement or not. His jawline, his lips, even that little lump on his right ear he’d always hated, but she always thought adorable, was all irrevocable proof he was indeed her brother, and not some long lost relative or doppelganger trying to take Bucky’s place. But his sunken cheeks and the hollows beneath his eyes made it clear that while he was putting on weight, his clothes no longer hanging off his frame, he was still severely underweight, in spite of the boiled chicken and plain turkey she’d incorporated into his diet. And she found herself struck with a disturbing thought she could not shake, no matter how hard she tried.

“Bucky,” she heard herself asking, even though she did not want to do anything that could possibly cause him any additional stress. But she needed to know. “I’m going to ask you something, and I need you to be completely honest with me, OK?”

Eyes lowered, _yes_.

“Are you still hungry? Am I feeding you enough?”

He froze, perfectly still, and she could see he was debating his answer. Which was all the answer she needed.

“Bucky,” she said, remembering at the last second to keep her voice low; this wasn’t his fault, and she wasn’t mad at him. “Bucky, I need you to look at me. Can you do that? Please?” A quick glance upwards, his eyes meeting hers, before he lowered them back to the tabletop. She sighed silently, knowing that was all she was going to get, all he could give at the moment.

“I’m not mad at you, OK? I’m not.” She looked down at her own hand, clenching her napkin and slowly loosened her fingers. In her frustration, she hadn’t realized she’d done it, and she knew, for all of his silence and blank stares, he was hyper-aware of every action she made, however inconsequential. A survival instinct, more than likely, and she needed to remember to always be aware of that.

“I’m not,” she reiterated, relaxing her voice along with her fingers. “But if you’re hungry, you need to eat. You don’t have to wait for me, or ask my permission. Everything in the cabinets, the kitchen, this house, is yours, just as much as it is mine. If you wake up in the middle of the night hungry, just come in here and grab whatever you want. If you’ve finished everything on your plate, and you want more, just get up and take it. You don’t have to ask me, or worry about what I’m going to say. There’s plenty, and I hate the idea of you being hungry because you think you’re only allowed so much. Please help yourself to anything you want.”

He wasn’t looking at her, but he was listening; there was that stillness to him she had come to know meant he was absorbing everything around him, paying a keen attention to the smallest detail, gauging her reaction. Whatever was going on inside of him, and there was definitely _something_ there, some sense of self that had not been present before, its primarily goal seemed focused on not upsetting her. She couldn’t even begin to fathom what had reduced her previously oh-so-opinionated brother to this.

It did give her an idea however; one she hated, but would use to her advantage, since ultimately it would be for his benefit.

“I want you to eat, Bucky.” She hoped he could hear all the love and sincere care in her voice, see it in her eyes, even though he wasn’t looking at her. “Nothing would please me more than you eating whatever you want, whenever you want it.”

Still that stillness, that forever bated-breathness of him. But she thought, she hoped, that maybe, _just maybe_ , a little bit of what she was saying made it through.

***

Nothing changed at first. If anything, whatever sense of him that had barely started to peak through disappeared, and he returned to being as passive as he’d first been when she brought him into the house. She was disappointed, but not surprised. Whenever she wasn’t at her classes, doing housework, or cooking their meals, she continued her research while Bucky sat in a huddle on his corner of the couch. Without knowing all the facts, it was nearly impossible for her formulate an effective treatment strategy. But she needed to start somewhere, and the more she read about trauma, prisoners of war, and PTSD, the more she recognized so many of the behaviors she observed in her brother. She also knew she needed to be patient, to appreciate the small gains for what they were, and to expect setbacks. She had to be careful to encourage, but not overwhelm or attempt to force a reaction.

There was also the fact Bucky was facing a two-pronged battle; whatever had traumatized him so severely versus the way his body was also still doing whatever it was that she could not explain, somehow rebuilding itself in ways defying all scientific understanding. It was likely he simply did not have the energy to spare for anything aside from eating, sleeping and using the bathroom.

But there was something there, something deep, the seed of himself lying dormant in the winter, preparing itself for the spring. She would just have to nourish it, while allowing him to set his own pace. Patience, dedication and time were the most valuable tools in her arsenal, and she would use them, not like a sword raised for battle, but a warm blanket, the purr of a kitten, the kiss of a butterfly’s wing on a cheek.

Along with love. So much love.

She could not help his spirit, not until he was ready or asked her to. But she could continue to fortify his body, the tower where the princess lay sleeping, waiting to wake.

She doubled the size of his meals, heaping extra servings on his plate without comment. He ate everything she put in front of him. He’d grown more accustomed to solid food, and while she still prepared him a shake with every meal, she had added nuts, yoghurt, scrambled and soft-boiled eggs into his diet. Nothing too spicy, not yet, or his body would reject it, but simple meals with generous amounts of proteins and complex carbohydrates were fine.

There was no outward reaction at first, but once again she could quickly see a difference. His color improved, his cheeks began to fill out, and the hollows beneath his eyes disappeared. His right arm increased in size, matching the heft of his left one. His hair started to grow back, a half-inch layer of fuzz that regained some of its previous luster, with not a single strand of grey, she could not help but again notice. He’d returned to her life at the end of March, and it was now July, and the physical changes in him during those four and a half months were remarkable. He was still too thin, but that was it exactly; he looked _thin_ , a bit on the skinny side, but no longer emaciated. So that aspect of his recovery was going well at least, and it gave her hope for the rest of it.

Then she introduced peanut butter into his diet, and that’s when things really started to change.

One morning, two weeks after their one-sided conversation where she encouraged him to eat whatever he wanted, she walked into the kitchen to prepare their breakfast. When she dropped the peel from the banana she always added to his breakfast shake into the garbage, she noticed an empty jar of peanut butter in the bin. She’d taken to serving Bucky a pre-bedtime snack of peanut butter and crackers, and while he hadn’t outwardly reacted, he did tend to eat those a bit faster than anything else.

The smile she smiled was so wide it hurt her cheeks.

When he silently padded into the kitchen for breakfast, she didn’t say anything about it. That was another improvement she had added to her small column of miracles; she no longer needed to knock on his door to call him for breakfast. He would rise on his own, take a shower, and appear in the kitchen the exact moment she finished cooking. Baby steps, but every infant needed to take its first steps at some point, before they were able to walk.

“Good morning, Bucky,” she said as she did every morning, sliding a plate filled with eggs, toast and fried potatoes in front of him, next to his shake and glass of apple juice, something else she’d incorporated into his diet. He did not respond, but she could tell he was watching her, scrutinizing her every move, waiting for her reaction.

She gave him none, or at least not one different from anything else she usually gave him. She simply chatted about the weather, the book she was reading to him, the movie they’d watched last night, and her plans for the rest of the day. It didn’t ease him; it was obvious he was still waiting for her to say _something_ about the peanut butter, but it did not prevent him from eating either.

Once they were done, she rose, carrying their plates to the sink. As she did, she simply said, “I saw the jar of peanut butter in the trash. You put it in the wrong bin. It’s recyclable, so it goes into the blue one, with the rest of the plastics, but I’m glad you enjoyed it. Let me know if you want me to pick up some of the crunchy the next time I go shopping. I think you’ll like that one even better. Now I’m off to my yoga class, I’ll be back in an hour and a half.” Then she walked out, without looking back, giving him the space to react in private however he needed to.

The crunchy peanut butter was a hit.

Over the course of the next few weeks, there was more and more evidence he had taken her at her word, believing her when she told him he was free to eat as much of whatever he wanted. Apple cores, banana peels, grape stems picked clean, an empty container of yoghurt, this time carefully placed in the blue bin, all made an appearance in the garbage when she came into the kitchen in the mornings. Never at a moment when she could witness him eating, but the proof was there.

Then one day she came home from her weekly grocery shopping, and found him in the kitchen, eating directly out of a box of cereal with his left hand. He paused, hand halfway to his mouth, obviously waiting for her reaction. This was a test, and she knew how she reacted now would set the tone of their cohabitation for months to come. As if there was any way but one for her to react.

“Cheerios, huh?” she asked, depositing the bags of groceries on the counter. “I’ve always been a fan of Rice Krispies myself, but if you like those I’ll make sure to add them to the list.” He was quiet, he was _always_ quiet, but after a few moments the sounds of his crunching dry cereal accompanied her as she put the rest of her groceries way.

That moment, she would later realize, was another turning point in his recovery, altering the dynamics of their relationship.

The following week when she returned from her grocery run, he met her from his hiding spot behind the door. That wasn’t remarkable in itself; he was usually waiting for her whenever she returned from going to class or running an errand. But this time, once she closed and locked the door behind her, without a word he took the bags from her hands, carried them into the kitchen, and began to put the items away, exactly where they belonged.

“Thank you, Bucky. That’s a big help,” she made sure to tell him once he was done. She wanted to reach out and hug him, or at least pat his shoulder, but he still shied away from anything that so much as hinted at any physical contact. So a grateful smile, and a thanks, would have to suffice.

It became a part of their routine. She didn’t know the reason why, but it was certainly an improvement, and she tried her damndest to not dissuade him. Now that he was eating more, able to hold nearly all of it down, he developed a fascination with food. She often caught him squinting at a label, turning a packet of frozen vegetables over and over in his hands, and one time actually sitting at the kitchen table running his fingers over the skin of a peach, apparently fascinated by the texture. She again couldn’t help but wonder if he was touch-starved; he’d always been so tactile during their youth. He still refused to be touched, but he was definitely taking a much more active interest in his surroundings, with a sincere curiosity that hadn’t been there before.

She did her best to encourage him, while being careful not to overwhelm him, and food proved to be the most successful gateway so far.

The day she added four slices of bacon to his breakfast, crispy, salty and thick, his eyes actually widened in surprise at his first taste. Then he realized what he had done, and immediately lowered his head in shame.

_Oh Bucky_ , she thought. Sometimes it was the smallest things that cut the deepest. But she kept that sentiment to herself, smiled instead and said, “I could eat it everyday for the rest of my life, and be a very happy woman.”

No response, as usual, but he did nearly lick his plate clean, and bacon became a standard part of their breakfast.

July rolled into August in much the same way. Her eightieth birthday came and went without any remark about it from Bucky, and she could admit she was disappointed. But he was here, in her life again, somehow, and that was easily the best present she’d ever been given.

The types of foods he could eat expanded even more, and his diet now included pork, beef, butter on his potatoes and toast. It was remarkable, how much he could eat, and she knew quite a few women who would be jealous of his capacity for food. He was still thin, but no longer skinny, not really, and she tried her best not to think about that too hard.

Then one day, on a lark, she decided to prepare something different, and that’s when Bucky cracked open the ground beneath her feet, and reminded her that hope was still a thing that existed in the world.

***

She was in the mood for their mother’s meatloaf. She couldn’t say why, she just was. She was a good cook, she knew that about herself, and Bobbi had always praised her skills after every meal. But every once in a while, she craved something from her mother’s kitchen, and would flip through the tin box of faded recipes she’d inherited upon Winifred’s death.

She wondered what her mother would have thought about all this, often missed her no-nonsense practicality and sage advice. Her mother had always been a survivor, until the day she wasn’t, and she knew Winifred mourned the loss of her oldest and only son for the rest of her life. If only she could see them now.

Casting those thoughts aside, she found the recipe she was looking for, and within an hour the kitchen was filled with the scents that reminded her of her childhood; loud voices, friendly arguments, Benny Goodman playing in the background on the radio. They hadn’t had much, but they’d been happy, unaware of all the tragedies they had yet to face.

But they’d always had food somehow, and the meatloaf she was preparing was a favorite. Even she had to admit she’d outdone herself as she sliced it up, pouring a healthy portion of gravy on top.

Simply because she could, she gave Bucky the end piece. That was the most treasured piece, both crispy and succulent, and their entire family would fight over who got it. It always went to their father, unless there was a special occasion, or somebody’s birthday; then it would go to the privileged boy or girl, who would gloat over it for the entire meal. She was feeling generous tonight, and truly, if anyone deserved it, it was Bucky.

He blinked at his plate when she set it in front of him, carefully poking at it with his fork, something he hadn’t done previously. She shrugged it off, because she had not served this to him before, and focused on her own meal.

It was as good as she remembered, even better than, satisfying her craving. She glanced at Bucky, debating whether or not to get the both of them a second serving, when he slowly, delicately put his fork down on his clean plate, looked up and met her eyes for the first time, and in a raspy, nearly silent voice whispered, “Thank you,” before immediately lowering his head.

If deserts had a voice, they would have sounded like Bucky’s did. Dry. Coarse. Raspy. Filled with scorched bones and endless secrets. A billion grains of sand rubbing against each other, with weight but no shape as they slipped through your fingers.

She was shocked. Absolutely, undeniably shocked, startled into stillness, but her hand still reaching for the sound, the shape of his words. It had been months, _months_ , since she’d last heard his voice, and she was seriously beginning to doubt she would ever hear it again. But dry, raspy and cracked as it was, she would have recognized that voice anywhere, over an earthquake, a tidal wave, the roar of a crowd.

She wanted to weep, sob, praise all the heavens in all the worlds, and she would, but only later, when she was alone.

Instead, she merely smiled, feeling the tremble of it in her bones, the deepest chambers of her heart, and said, “You’re–you’re very welcome.”

_Up – down_ , went his eyes, a quick check-in, gauging her reaction, searching for the truth of her.

“There you are,” she continued softly, when nothing else was forthcoming. A second glance, just a little bit longer, but just as perceptive as the previous one had been. “Hey big brother. It’s been a while.”

A third glance, but this one lingered, a cautious, hesitant study as he slowly scanned her face, scrutinizing her features; the wrinkles in her cheeks, the corners of her eyes, the now completely white hair that hung over her shoulder in a thick braid, a small furrow appearing on his own forehead.

“You,” he paused to swallow, take yet another glance, “you got old.”

Sands in the winds, dunes rising and falling, something lost finally starting to find its way home.

“I did.” What else could she do but agree? It was the truth after all. “And somehow you didn’t.” That was the wrong thing to say. He immediately lowered his gaze, hunching in on himself. “But that doesn’t matter,” she quickly assured him. “None of it matters. At some point you’re going to have to tell me about it, because I want to help you, but not now.

“The only thing that matters right now,” she took a chance, and reached out, to gently, very gently, lay her left hand on top of his, “is that you came home. I’ve missed you so much, Bucky, so much. You have no idea. Welcome back.”

His hand was cool and still beneath hers. But he kept it there, not moving it away, studying the contrast of her skin against his. They stayed like that, while the sun slowly set, the shadows it cast through the window growing longer, until he carefully pulled his hand out from beneath hers, shrugged a nearly infinitesimal shrug, and whispered, “I missed you too, Becca-Bee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday everyone. I hope wherever you are in the world right now, you are as happy, healthy and safe as possible. 💜💜💜


	8. 2000 - Rebecca  (Cont'd...)

She found herself thinking about miracles and their cost quite a bit after that evening Bucky started to speak. About who benefited from them, and who paid the price. Bucky’s return was certainly miraculous, but as the days flowed into weeks and the summer made its way into fall, it was obvious he had paid for it in flesh and blood.

Was still paying for it, if she were being honest.

Truth be told, not much changed between them after that memorable meal, and it wasn’t as if Bucky became an engaging conversationalist simply because she made him meatloaf. He was still quiet, still had a hard time meeting her gaze, and still sometimes spent entire days sitting on the couch, staring off into nothing. His caloric intake remained obscene, and he could easily sleep half the day away.

But that did not mean things remained the same either.

Because he did respond to her, especially if she asked him a yes or no question. When he wasn’t lost in the wastelands of his own mind, he watched her with a keen intensity she could feel no matter what she was doing. Whenever she caught him at it, sometimes he would look away. But not always; sometimes when she glanced over, she could see the confusion in him, as if she were a puzzle he could not comprehend. And other times, other times, there would be a sharpness in his gaze, an intense scrutiny that was studying and analyzing, weighing its options and drawing its own conclusions, whatever they may be.

She preferred that, if she were being honest, because that sharp intelligence, that attention to detail, was one-hundred percent who Bucky had always been, and while it was slow to emerge, it _was_ emerging, taking its sweet time, but it was there. If asked, anyone from their old neighborhood would have described Bucky as charming, friendly, easy-going, a real stand-up fellah, and loyal friend. And they would have been right; Bucky was all those things. But there were layers to her brother, subtleties, a very complicated mind hidden beneath all that charm and swagger, forever more interesting, and definitely more intense than a surface glance would reveal. She often thought then, and even more so now, that very few people had ever truly known her brother. She, herself, and perhaps their mother, who she could remember watching Bucky with a cocked head and a concerned look in her eyes, especially when they were younger. Steve certainly. If there was anyone who ever looked at Bucky and _knew_ him, saw the whole of him and recognized him for all he was, it was Steve. If asked, Rebecca would admit Steve probably knew Bucky better than anyone on the planet, including herself. But then again, Bucky was the only one who ever saw all of Steve for who _he_ truly was, a like recognizing like, one yin, one yang, their shades shifting depending on the situation, but always perfectly balanced.

But Steve wasn’t here now, she was. It was up to her to help Bucky not only find his balance, but reemerge into the world.

And it was happening, baby steps, days of silence, and long hours spent sleeping none-the-less.

It was funny, she thought, how a few simple words over a shared meal could change so much, loosening the worry gnawing at her heart and tightness in her lungs, only to make room for more concerns, worries and questions to take their place. But there had always been levels to her as well, reasons why out of the four Barnes children they’d been the closest to each other. Even if he hadn’t known the rest of their family was dead, and in some small corner of her mind she could not help but think he did, of course she would have been the one he sought out in his time of need. _Twins separated by four years,_ was how their mother used to describe them. _Matching bookends,_ their father said. _Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum,_ had been Steve’s opinion on the matter, causing them to face him with what he claimed was dual scowls, usually with a laugh. But there was and always had been a truth in that; not just an understanding, but a similarity unusual even among siblings.

So just like Bucky studied, observed, and weighed every single one of her actions, she did the same to him, albeit more subtly, making notations of her own that she marked and ticked in her mental spreadsheet of him.

His sleeping patterns, consumption of food, and hair growth brought her back to her original thought that his body wasn’t healing, but regenerating itself somehow. The why and how of it she could not understand, but the evidence was there. The clearness of his skin, unmarked by time. The smoothness of his gait, silent and steady, without any hint of aching joints. The broadness of his shoulders, strong and balanced; he had a tendency to curve them inward, hunching forward slightly, but it was an affectation, and not the result of age. He was consuming nearly eight thousand calories a day, and his body was putting them to use, rebuilding what was lost, fixing itself as Bucky grew bigger, stronger, faster. This was not the man she found in her shed five months ago.

But nor was he the brother she had last seen heading off to war fifty-six years ago either.

Because he was _bigger, stronger, faster_.

While always tall and muscular, especially once he started working down at the docks at the age of seventeen, there’d been a leanness to Bucky, reminiscent of an alley-cat. She wouldn’t go so far as to call him bulky now, but the alley-cat had grown into a panther, still lean, but much more powerful, with muscles she could see rippling beneath his clothes. Calves of a runner, chest of a bodybuilder, and arms, both of them, of a swimmer.

His reflexes were remarkable too, she discovered one morning when in the middle of pouring herself a second glass of orange juice, she sneezed, knocking it from the table. When she looked up, Bucky held the glass in his left hand, not a single drop spilled, and a napkin in his right, which he offered to her.

“Thank you,” she said, after a second glance at the floor to make sure she wasn’t imagining things. What else could she say? Bucky merely nodded before turning back to his eggs and bacon.

So his body was healing, working itself steadily back to its baseline, whatever that was. His mind, on the other hand, was traversing a much more challenging terrain, filled with false starts, setbacks and detours.

It was difficult to observe, but not surprising, as her continued research informed her. Now that she was no longer worried he would die of heart failure or starvation, she devoted more of her time on her computer searching for ways to help him. There wasn’t much, and certainly nothing pertaining to Bucky’s situation, but psychology had come a long way since the forties, with new articles and case studies being published every week. She had spent over forty years of her life marking papers, instructing her students how to propose a thesis, construct an argument, and provide supporting documentation, so she knew how to do the legwork, separate facts from opinion, and validate her sources. In fact, if not for her brother’s condition, she would have found all the documentation she read fascinating, a new intellectual pursuit to challenge herself with. But she _was_ doing this for Bucky, so the stakes were higher than recognition or applying for a grant. It was still interesting though, and more importantly helped her find ways to help him.

She refused to allow him to withdraw into himself. There were times, days even, when he would need the mental space and privacy to build up enough resources to deal with whatever it was he was trying to overcome, and it would have to be at his own pace. But except for the very worst days, when he resumed his nearly catatonic huddle on her couch, she engaged him as much as possible, encouraging but not forcing him, never forcing him, to interact with the world.

He still didn’t talk much, especially not at first, but would usually answer her if she asked a _yes_ or _no_ question. Too much choice either overwhelmed or frightened him, so instead of asking, “What do you want for breakfast today?” which would immediately cause him to shut down, she learned to instead ask, “Pancakes or French toast?” It took him some time, but once he accepted her question was sincere, with no hidden agenda, he began to respond, usually picking pancakes.

She instituted other ways to engage him as well. Her mother used to have a favorite phrase; _idle hands are the devil’s workshop._ Now that he was no longer at death’s door, she decided to heed her mother’s wisdom, and began to ask Bucky to help her perform simple tasks around the house. Not just putting away the groceries, which he started doing on his own, but washing the dishes, sweeping the floors, and dusting the shelves; a list of chores for him to complete, not unlike what had been expected of him during their childhood.

That’s when she began to notice something even more troubling about him.

She was not looking for a servant or housekeeper; her intent was only to keep him occupied, focused in the present and interacting with his surroundings. Bucky performed every task asked of him without a word of complaint, going above and beyond the bare essentials. Whenever she returned from one of her classes, a grocery run, or a trip to the local library when there was a resource she wanted to pursue, the house was spotless, the counters and floors gleaming. It was a big help, she had to admit, freeing up more of her time for research. But there was still something about it that bothered her, a subservience, submission in what he did, as if Bucky were obeying her, instead of doing his fair share of the housework.

“But you told me to,” was all he would say, confused, when she asked him about it.

“Yes, but I just wanted a bit of help, not for you to do all of it yourself,” she pressed, trying to make her point clear.

“Did I do it wrong?” He bowed his head and hunched his shoulders, looking lost, alone, frightened.

“No Bucky, no. Of course not,” she tried to assure him. “And even if you did, who cares? It’s just housework. I just wanted to make sure you understand you don’t have to do all of it, that’s all.”

A slight nod, and then two days of him barely speaking, cringing every time she came within four feet of him.

She resorted to writing out a list of tasks she wanted him to complete, “and not a single one more,” which seemed to ease her mind more than his.

“If you’re bored, then go read a book,” she waved her hand at her bookshelves, “or watch some TV. I’ve got cable, there’s plenty for you to watch. Just pick something, whatever you want, I don’t care.”

That was something else she could not help but notice, how much he struggled with choice, or having an opinion of his own. It went beyond him being unable to tell her what he wanted to eat, or whether he enjoyed his day. If she asked him what movie he wanted to watch, did he need more blankets since the nights were getting chillier, or which book should she read to him next, his answers were always some variation of, “It’s fine,” or “Whatever you decide,” sometimes staring at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. As if the only opinion that held any weight was her own. Or, even worse, as if opinions were something he no longer had any right to.

What the hell was she supposed to do with that?

Still, she tried, encouraging, praising, even gently teasing him, as much as she could, as much as she thought he could bear.

It was far from the only strange thing she noticed during those months, things she found herself questioning aside from his presence. It was definitely a paradox, but only one of many, and Bucky was filled with contradictions, each one more perplexing than the next.

While usually passive and disturbingly submissive, he did have opinions, and there were things he would not compromise on. The first, and most notable, was when she suggested he start accompanying her on her daily walks or grocery runs.

“No,” he absolutely refused, his voice the sharpest she’d ever heard it. “It’s not safe. No one can know.” No matter how many times she begged, pleaded or rephrased her request, on this he would not be moved.

He also refused to tell her what had happened to him. That was a greyer area for her to navigate, and she was unable to determine if it was because he still couldn’t, or wouldn’t.

But there were other things as well, behaviors she noticed which were more perplexing than clarifying, and just confused her more.

It was obvious certain things puzzled Bucky, that he struggled to comprehend. Nudity and sex scenes in films left him dumbstruck, as did the fact there were television shows with an entirely black cast. He wasn’t offended, that didn’t seem to be it, more shocked than disturbed, if his wide-eyed stare was anything to go by. It was certainly different from how things had been when they were younger, but she could not understand why he was so surprised.

In direct contrast, he had no problems with modern technology, or any apparent qualms about using it. He was indifferent to her cell phone, barely gave her computer a second glance, and didn’t need any explanations regarding how to use the microwave, or her washing machine and dryer. And he did something to her air conditioner that made it run quieter and more efficiently than previously.

It didn’t make any damned sense. Why was a rerun of _Family Matters_ more perplexing to him than her Nokia? Then again, he had a metal arm beyond any prosthesis she could have imagined, that he was perfectly comfortable with, even if it disturbed her. Wherever he had been, whatever had happened to him, he was familiar with technology.

So many questions, and nowhere near enough answers, at least none Bucky was willing to provide, and she simply had to muddle her way through.

Yet in spite of all that, there was progress, indications that no matter how many times she worried if she was doing the right thing, Bucky was recovering. It was a slow process, but the signs were there, and she cherished each and every single one.

He began to talk more, or at least respond verbally instead of nodding or looking away when she asked him a question, and thanking her when she placed a meal in front of him. Those slowly developed into sentences, spoken in a voice she now knew was raspy from disuse. “Yes, it was very good, thank you for making it,” or “No, it does not need any more salt, it’s perfect.”

He seldom initiated a conversation, but was always by the door when she returned home, and after a few months began to greet her with, “How was your yoga class?” or “Did you enjoy your walk?” sincerely interested in her response.

Perhaps they were mere platitudes, but the more she encouraged that behavior, making sure he saw her smile, the more he began to speak. More than likely he was attempting to please her, but whatever his motivations, it was working, and she continued to encourage it.

The more time passed, the less of it he spent in a catatonic state. It still happened at an alarming rate, but only every couple of days instead of every other day.

If he was hungry after a meal, he would get up and serve himself a second portion, always with a glance to check if it what he was doing was permissible, but since she’d taken to quickly saying, “I told you, you don’t have to ask,” by the time November rolled around, he sometimes didn’t even look at her before rising from the table.

November was the month things really began to change, when the first few whispers of his personality began to emerge. By then, Bucky’s digestive system had recovered completely, and he could easily eat anything she put in front of him without vomiting. His skin cleared, his bodyweight stabilized, and while his appetite was immense, his caloric intake no longer needed to be supplemented by the high protein shakes. His body finished rebuilding itself, stabilizing, requiring no further intervention on either of their parts. Puzzling, yes, but also a huge relief.

With that part of his recovery done, others grew active. His innate curiosity was the first to manifest itself, slowly, carefully, timidly, but the signs of it were there.

The first time she witnessed it was an unremarkable day a week before Thanksgiving. Bucky was cleaning while she took notes from the latest book she borrowed from the library, when out of the corner of her eye, she noticed he’d grown still, his attention caught by something on her mantel. He felt her looking, he always knew when she was watching him, and after a few seconds he turned, pointing at one of the framed photographs she kept there. Knowing exactly which picture he was indicating, she rose from her seat and made her way to his side, feeling the weight of her own life bearing down on her shoulders.

“That’s me and my husband Bobbi, on our wedding day.” She picked up the frame and held it out to him. He studied it for a moment, carefully scrutinizing the image, before glancing around the room and then back at her face, a question in his eyes.

“He died,” she answered his unasked query. “Almost three years ago. Stroke, in the middle of the night.”

“No…no children?” His voice, his raspy, dry and cracked voice, was suddenly as soft, as gentle, as warm as velvet on her cheek.

“No, no children,” she shook her head. “We tried, for a very long time, but it just wasn’t in the cards for us.” He was staring at the photo, at her long white dress and the roses in her hands.

“Were you happy?”

“Very much so.” She reached out to trace her fingertip over her handsome husband in his rented tuxedo. “He was a good, kind man, and I loved him with all my heart. We had fifty good years together, and I don’t regret a single one.” His eyes followed the path her finger took, taking in all the details, as if committing them to memory, the quiet between them different from any that had come before, heavier, reverent, filled with a million things, all of them left unspoken.

“I’m so sorry, Becca-Bee.” And there he was, her kind, gentle and compassionate big brother.

“It’s alright,” she lied. What else could she do but lie? Life was what it was, and there was no going back. “I still have you, after all. We may be the only two of us left, but at least we still have each other.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said again, those three words encapsulating everything neither of them could say.

“It’s alright,” she repeated, taking the photograph from his hand to carefully replace it on the mantel.

This time it wasn’t a lie.

***

The second sign Bucky was regaining some sense of self appeared on Thanksgiving. It had been a good day, Bucky alert and aware, helping her prepare their feast of turkey, stuffing, biscuits, green bean casserole, and cranberry sauce without being asked. He was quiet, as usual, but after just ten minutes, she had to admit his knife skills were phenomenal, and within a few hours they sat down with a shared feast between them. Afterwards, he shooed her out of the kitchen with a wave of his hands, indicating without words he would handle the clean-up. She settled on the couch, intending to pick a movie to watch, but must have dozed off.

When she woke from her nap, the television was off, she was covered in a blanket, and Bucky was sitting on the floor by her feet with an open book in his hands, reading.

She had caught him staring at the books on her shelves, scanning the titles, but though she assured him over a hundred times he was free to read anything he wanted, he never picked one. Until today.

“Is it any good?” she asked, unable to keep the pleasure from her voice. He looked up to stare at her, using his eyes to verify what her voice had told him. He apparently found what he was looking for, because he shrugged, returned his attention back to the book, and flipped to the next page.

That was definitely something to be thankful for.

***

With things going as well as they were, she decided it was time to push the boundaries, nudge Bucky just a little bit, and see what, if any, reaction she could provoke from him. She used her next grocery run, once they finished all the leftovers from Thanksgiving, to test him.

As expected, he met her at the door, taking the bags from her hands and carrying them into the kitchen while she removed her jacket and scarf to hang in the hall closet. By the time she joined him, all her purchases were spread out on the counter, Bucky’s eyes scanning them over and over.

“Is there something wrong?” she chirped, heading over to the coffee pot to pour herself a mug. He looked from the groceries, to her face, back to the groceries and then to her face again. “What’s the matter? Did I forget something?” She had, deliberately, and she wanted to see how he would react.

“There’s no bacon.” He stared at the items on the counter as if he could will the bacon into existence simply by squinting hard enough.

“Oh really?” she feigned surprise. If there was one thing Bucky loved, expressed any emotion over, it was bacon with his breakfast. He would probably eat it with every meal if she made it for him. Quite honestly, she couldn’t blame him; she was pretty fond of the stuff herself. It wasn’t her intent to deny him something that obviously gave him pleasure, when so few things did, but she’d been working on encouraging him to express his own wants and desires, and as of yet he’d resisted all her attempts.

“It must not have been on the list then,” she made sure to smile her biggest, brightest smile at him. He shifted his squint from the food to her face. “You remember the list, don’t you? I know I must have told you about it at least sixteen times. If you notice we’ve run out of something, or want something specifically, all you have to do is add it to the list,” she glanced at the pad and pencil placed prominently on the kitchen table, “and I’ll make sure to pick some up.” She had no idea how he managed it, but she could tell he was scowling at her without moving a single muscle on his face.

“I’m sorry I forgot your bacon, Bucky,” she lied, knowing butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth with the way she continued to smile. “But I am eighty you know. My memory’s not what it used to be. Just put it on the list, and I’ll make sure to grab some when I go back next week.” Then she picked up her coffee mug, turned, and strode out of the kitchen without once looking back.

***

The following Wednesday, when she checked the list before her grocery run, she couldn’t help her laugh. Because there, written in big, block letters, was:

_½ pound bacon_

_½ pound bacon_

_½ pound bacon_

_½ pound bacon_

_½ pound bacon_

_Oreos – one packet_

_½ pound bacon_

_½ pound bacon_

_½ pound bacon_

_½ pound bacon_

_ ½ POUND BACON _

***

When she returned an hour later, he was waiting for her, obviously nervous, but still there.

“See for yourself.” She held up the two bags filled with ten pounds of meat. He took them from her, along with all the others, without a word and headed straight for the kitchen. By the time she joined him, the ten packets of bacon where lined up in a neat row, _two_ packages of Oreos stacked beside them.

“Oreos, huh?” Her smile was sincere. “Good choice.” When he looked at her, his eyes were wide, and for the first time, she could actually see hope in them.

“Thank you, Becca-Bee,” he murmured, sounding not like a man, but a lost little boy, frightened and alone, but maybe, just maybe, starting to believe, to trust, in those around him.

“You’re very welcome, Bucky.” She took another chance, stepped forward and reached out slowly to cup his cheek in her hand. “I told you, anything you want. All you have to do is ask, and if I can, I’ll give it to you.”

He closed his eyes, nodded, and brushed the fingertips of his right hand over the back of hers, before stepping away. She smiled again, grateful for the gesture, knowing how difficult even that much was for him.

“Now, what do you think about BLTs for lunch? How does that sound?” she asked his back as he began putting the groceries away.

“I’ll make them,” he said in his quiet voice, and she couldn’t help but wonder if there was a smile on his face as he did.

***

They were the best damned sandwiches she’d ever eaten.

***

And then, before she knew it, the Christmas season was upon them. Her holiday calendar was nowhere near as busy as it used to be. Her Bobbi had been an only child, and once his parents passed, while there were a few cousins from his side she sent Christmas cards to, they’d fallen out of touch. They’d had a large circle of people she socialized with when they lived in Brooklyn, but age and her moving to New Jersey had reduced their numbers and weakened any bonds. She’d made new friends in her little lakeside community, through her classes mostly, but these days her holidays were a quiet affair. She continued to decorate her home, cook a nice meal, and usually donated time to a soup kitchen.

But now Bucky was back, and she truly had something to celebrate. From what she observed, she was certain Bucky hadn’t experienced a proper Christmas in far too long, and while she didn’t want to overwhelm him, it was important to her he had a good day, that they both did. Her life was so different than it had been a mere nine months ago, and while there had definitely been challenges, they had all been absolutely worth it. If that didn’t deserve to be recognized, she had no idea what did.

Bucky appeared indifferent to the upcoming holiday. He did what she asked of him, hauling the boxes of decorations down from the attic, hanging lights in the window, and watching her write her yearly Christmas cards with a bemused countenance. He was talking more, though not by much, and he still seldom expressed an opinion of his own, but she’d grown used to his quiet presence, finding something assuring in it.

She’d splurged a little this year, deciding on a real tree, not a big one, but a good size, that filled the entire house with the scent of pine. Bucky strung the tinsel and hung the ornaments as directed, while carols played in the background, but none of it seemed to matter to him, not really, and she again could not help but wonder what had happened to him to cause such a lack of reaction, when Christmas used to be his favorite time of year. If nothing else, it strengthened her determination to give him the best holiday possible.

But then, on the night of the twenty-third of December, once again Bucky surprised her, with a brightness that was brighter than the brightest star on top of any Christmas tree, and proving without a doubt that Christmas miracles did exist.

That night, a little after two a.m., she woke, slid her feet into her slippers and shuffled into the hallway. While still fit and spry for her age, her bladder wasn’t what it used to be, and sometimes she needed to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. She was on her way back to her room when she noticed the lights of the Christmas tree were on, when she was certain she turned them off before going to bed. Not only that, but Bucky was sitting on the floor beneath it, his legs bent at the knees, his arms wrapped around them, staring up at the tree. And the look on his face…

The look on his face…

Wondrous, wide-eyed and awestruck.

With the glow from the lights kissing his cheeks and reflected in the sheen of his eyes, he was both a man and a little boy, frozen, but not, in a moment of perfect balance between the two.

It was grace. Pure unadulterated grace, untouched by time, missing years, and all the marks left by life upon a soul.

A benediction she was lucky enough to witness, placed in her hands by Bucky himself.

“Hey,” she murmured, sinking to her knees at his side. She was loathe to disturb him, especially when she knew moments of such peace, such grace were rare for him. But some part of her was greedy, selfish, and wanted more than just a handful. In ways she could not define but only feel, more than anything she _needed_ her big brother at that moment, needed to share this with him.

But the night, or perhaps Bucky, was feeling generous, and the mood did not break, but shifted, stretched, to embrace her as well.

“It’s so beautiful,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving the tree.

“It is,” she whispered back, her eyes never leaving him. “I’m so glad you like it.” He nodded slightly, but this time it felt different than all his previous nods; less deferential and more reverent. She shifted slightly, getting more comfortable, settling in to sit with him for as long as he let her. He was quiet for a time, his gaze on the tree, staring as if its boughs and branches held the answers to all the mysteries of life.

“I remember,” he began, his voice still hushed. “There wasn’t one, not for a long time, but there used to be. A long time ago…We used to do this?”

“We did,” she confirmed, taking her own turn to study the tree, with its soft, white lights and silver tinsel. “Every year. It was your favorite holiday.”

“I remember,” he said again. “You, and Ma and Da and…and…we were happy, I think?”

“We were,” she nodded.

“But then it got dark, for a very, very long time.” He blinked, his eyelashes casting long shadows on his cheeks. “And I forgot. But now it’s not.”

“You were gone, and they told us you died. It got dark for all of us.” She needed to pause, to swallow the grief of that moment, of those years, and how empty their lives had all become without the bright star that had been Bucky in their lives. “But now you’re here, somehow, and it’s the best Christmas ever.”

“But now I’m here, somehow.”

And on this night that was blessed and already filled to bursting with miracles, that she would never, ever forget, the world shifted, expanded, proved itself kind, with room for even more, as Bucky reached out and wrapped his arm around her, gently pulling her in to rest her head against his shoulder.

“Thank you, Becca-Bee.”

His hair had grown longer, now reaching his chin, and it tickled her cheek. It smelled like coconut, and his skin was warm. But his arm, as it held her against his chest, was as strong and as gentle as she remembered it always being, and she wanted to stay there forever, cradled in the security of her big brother’s embrace until the end of time.

“You’re very welcome Bucky. Merry Christmas.”

***

They sat like that, brother and sister curled together, for a very long time, the passing moments warm and sticky-sweet like honey. It was safe, calm, peaceful, and she thought it might, just might, be enough to keep them safe enough to withstand the next question she needed to ask.

“What happened to you, Bucky?”

He tensed at her words, a tiny shiver that felt like an earthquake, for all that it was small. But he didn’t pull away.

“It’s not that I’m not happy that you’re here,” she went on while she still had the courage. “I am, I’m so happy, you have no idea. But you haven’t said anything about it, and I need to know. It shouldn’t be possible, but here you are, and I don’t understand.”

“I know.” There was kindness in his voice, the kindness she remembered from their childhood. But also something else, something heavy and filled with regret.

“I’m you sister, Bucky, and I’ve always loved you, always,” she lifted her head from his shoulder to stare at him, at his profile, still bathed in the soft Christmas lights. “Don’t you think I have a right to know?”

“You do,” he conceded with a nod. “And I will.” Then he turned and met her gaze directly for the first time that night, his eyes big and blue, but clear, clearer than she could recall seeing them since he returned to her, which was a stark contradiction to what he said next. “But it’s a mess in here,” he tapped his temple with the tip of the forefinger of his left hand. “There’s so much, too much, and not all of it makes sense, not even to me, and I lived it.

“But I am trying, Becca-Bee, and I will tell you. But can I just have this, just for now, for a little bit longer, please?”

It was so rare he asked for anything, especially for himself. And this was something she could easily give.

“Of course.” She rested her head back upon his shoulder, just breathing him in, feeling the relief wash through his body and into her own. “How much do you remember?”

“Some,” he said after a moment. “Not all of it. But more and more every day. But like I said, it’s a mess, and I get confused, because it doesn’t make sense, like reading a story backwards or in a language you don’t understand. It’s hard, and it makes my head hurt, and sometimes I don’t even know when I am. Puzzle pieces, from a hundred different puzzles, and none of the shapes fit right.”

It was the longest conversation they’d had so far, the most words she’d heard him use at once. She was so grateful she decided to ignore his ubiquitous use of the word _when_ instead of _where_.

“I can help,” she said instead.

“You already have.” While his expression remained unchanged, she could hear the smile in his voice.

“No, I know, but I can help even more. In fact…” She shifted, pulling out of his embrace to reach beneath the Christmas tree for one of the wrapped parcels beneath. When they first put up the tree, she assured him they weren’t going to exchange gifts, mostly because she didn’t want to force Bucky to do something he wasn’t ready for, or feel obligated to her for any reason. She’d been lying. She didn’t expect anything from him, but she was damned well going to make sure he had something to unwrap on Christmas morning. It was mostly clothes; more pajamas, soft sweaters and jeans, a wool coat, a scarf, gloves, socks and underwear, things to keep him warm, let him know he was safe. The box she held was a last-minute addition, one she prayed wouldn’t upset him, but now hoped would be more meaningful than anything else.

“You said…” For the first time he looked hesitant, confused, that fearful look returning to his face, afraid he’d done something wrong.

“Yeah well, I changed my mind,” she shrugged. “Go on, take it. It’s for you.”

“I didn’t get you anything,” he shook his head.

“I know, I told you not to. But I’m your sister, and I’m old. It’s my right to do whatever the hell I want. I’ve earned it. Now open it,” she nodded toward the box, using her best teacher-face, until he conceded and began to slowly unwrap the package.

Inside was a book, old, heavy and thick, with a leather cover. He fingered the worn edges carefully before picking it up and laying it on his lap, surrounding himself in that stillness so uniquely his now.

“It’s a photo album,” she explained, resettling herself at his side. And because it was a night filled with miracles, and she’d been lucky so far, she lifted his arm and re-draped it over her shoulder, leaning into his warmth. “Of our family. Some from when we were younger, and some from after you left. It’s not much, but I thought you’d like to see it. Given what you just said, it might help you remember. And if you don’t, just ask me, and I’ll tell you.”

He’d already flipped open the cover, and was staring at the first picture, a sepia toned photograph, one of the very few remaining of the entire Barnes clan as it had once been. Their mother and father were at the center, Daniella and Gracie on the right, Bucky and herself on the left, smiles on their faces, his right arm wrapped around her shoulder, just like it was now. He was frowning at it, his brow furrowed, trying to fit this new piece into his puzzle, she guessed.

“This was us?” he asked, scrutinizing his own face as if he didn’t recognize it, as if it wasn’t the one he saw staring back at him in the mirror every day.

“This was us,” she confirmed. “Ma, Da, Gracie and Daniella, our sisters,” she pointed at them and then dragged her finger to the other end of the picture. “And me and you.” He kept staring, studying, until his eyes flicked up to her face.

“You’re still beautiful,” he told her, another miracle to add to her honeycomb of them, and she couldn’t help her smile. “And short.”

_“Hey!”_

“Do you still have that mean right hook?”

“Just try me boyo, and you’ll find out for yourself.” But she was laughing as she said it.

“Of that I have no doubt.” And then for the first time, the very first time, he actually smiled at her. Sunrises and newly blooming roses would be jealous of that smile, and it was yet another miracle, on this night filled with them. It quickly faded though, and he was shaking his head.

“I should have gotten you something,” he chastised himself, his attention back on the photo.

“You already have, Bucky.” She shifted, leaning against him, snuggling back into his warmth. “You already have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter. The next one starts a new year when things change even more for Bucky and Becca. =) 
> 
> Also **hugs you all super tight** because I don't know about you, but I've desperately missed hugs lately.


	9. 2001 - Rebecca

**2001**

**Rebecca**

New Year’s came and went, short, cold days followed by longer and even colder nights. They took down the Christmas decorations, and she forewent her early morning walks, knowing she would go back to them in the spring.

And Bucky, well, Bucky continued to change, growing ever stronger and present with each passing day. She worried he would regress after Christmas, but he didn’t, and continued to evolve in ways that surprised her. There were still a few bad days, true, but when he was there, he was really there, interacting and engaging her in more and more conversation with each passing day. She wouldn’t go so far as to call him talkative, but it was not the silence, hesitant headshakes and bated-breath of before, and when he did talk to her, his face was more expressive. He still rarely if ever smiled, but would tilt his head, cock an eyebrow, or her personal favorite, scowl when something frustrated him.

They spent several evenings sitting on the couch, pouring over the photos in the album, and he was less shy about asking her a question when he wanted more information. He hadn’t lied when he said there were gaps in his memory; he remembered their mother much better than their father, and had no recollections of Gracie or Daniella. He’d loved them, of that there had been no doubt, but the three of them never shared the bond he’d had with her.

The talking seemed to help though. Sometimes he would finished the story he asked her to start, and other times his posture would change, his expression shift, gaze growing distant, and she could see he was reaching, searching for the memory, only to either nod or shake his head in frustration when he couldn’t find it.

“Don’t worry, it’ll come,” she took to assuring him. “And even if it doesn’t, you still have me to tell you all about it.”

His soft and grateful _“Always”_ never failed to make her smile.

The physical closeness they shared that sacred evening appeared to be an anomaly, and he resumed keeping himself out of her reach, or perhaps keeping her out of his. But it wasn’t the same as before, and he no longer huddled in the corner of the couch when she joined him there at the end of the day.

Of his own accord, he began reading, watching television and preparing some of their meals. He wasn’t a great cook, his meals simple at best, but he wasn’t half-bad either. He’d been a bachelor after all, sharing an apartment with Steve, and she remembered them dividing the cooking duties, even if they had spent plenty of evenings back at their parents’ house, to share a meal and snag any leftovers that could be spared.

But he was doing well, not quite independent, but certainly more self-sufficient than when he first appeared in her shed, and for all intents and purposes, he looked like a very healthy and competent man in his mid-twenties. And she thought she could live with this, that this was going to be the new rhythm of their lives, and they would make their way forward, just like they had for the past ten months.

Until one morning in February, she came home from yoga class, and once again Bucky destroyed everything she thought she knew about the world.

***

It was the hardest day of her life.

He was sitting at her kitchen table, hands clasped in front of him, waiting for her. That in and of itself was strange, since he always greeted her at the door, but he was also fully dressed, wearing one of the sweaters and a pair of dark jeans she purchased him for Christmas, a bag at his feet.

“What’s going on?” she asked, the solemnity of his expression sending chills down her spine. “Is everything alright?”

“You said you wanted to know what happened to me,” he began without prevarication. “How I got here. And I told you I wasn’t ready yet.”

“And you are now?” For all that she wanted to know, _needed_ to know, she was suddenly afraid, so very, very afraid of what he was going to tell her.

“I am,” he nodded, “but I don’t know if you are. And once I’m done, I don’t think you’re ever going to want to see my face again.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” she countered, lifting her chin.

“We’ll see,” he said with a small smile. For all that it was a smile, it was sad, and she hated it instantly. “And I know I’ve got no right, when you’ve already done so much for me, but I need to ask for two more things from you.”

“What?”

“That you believe everything I tell you, no matter how crazy it sounds, because it’s the truth.”

“And?”

“And that you wait until I’m finished before you ask any questions. This is going to be hard enough for me to talk about, and if you interrupt me while I do, I’ll never be able to tell you the rest.”

“Okay, I promise you Bucky, I’ll believe everything you say, and I won’t interrupt.”

“Thank you,” he nodded, looking relieved.

“Can I at least get a cup of coffee first?” she asked, reaching for her mug from the dishrack.

“You’re probably going to need it,” he said, still in that strange voice.

“I gotta admit, you’re scaring me Bucky,” she confessed as she stirred sugar and cream into her coffee.

“I’m scared too,” he agreed. “But you asked, and you deserve to know the truth. I’m not who you think I am, Becca-Bee.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she wanted to know, sitting in the seat perpendicular to his.

“But no matter what you think of me after this, just know that I love you, that I’ve always loved you and I always will.”

“I do know that Bucky, I’ve always known that.”

“Thank you,” he bowed his head. He sat like that, perfectly still, immobile, for uncountable minutes, staring at his hands on the table top. Until he finally, finally, took a deep breath, lifted his head and met her eyes, and said, “Whatever they told you about what happened to me at the end of the war was a lie.”

***

_It starts with a battle, a desperate hand reaching out, and a fall from a train._

_No, it starts even earlier than that, with a capture, and experimentation, and a blue fluid that burns like fire injected into veins, and a rescue that should not have been possible, but happens none-the-less._

_But then there comes the fall, and this time there is no rescue, and that is where the story truly begins._

_Being found, somehow still alive, and dragged through the snow._

_Days, weeks, months, years of isolation and brutal torture, that never, never ends._

_Being experimented on, injected with more of the blue fire, the buzzing of a saw as it cuts off what remains of an arm, to be replaced by a metal one._

_Escape attempts that never succeed, curses, screams, pleading falling on deaf ears._

_More torture, whips and chains and electric shocks and starvation, the destruction of a soul._

_Still struggling, attempts at escape, but growing weaker and weaker, and always failing._

_Training with the torture now, praise for submission, punishment for disobedience._

_And he heals. No matter what is done to him, he always heals. Better than before, better than expected, and they are pleased._

_More experiments, more training, the forging of a weapon at the price of a human soul._

_Then come the Words._

_Then come the Handlers._

_And a frozen sleep in a coffin of metal and ice when it is not needed._

_Resistance becomes impossible._

_Missions, murders, assassinations, praise for their perfect weapon._

_But any knowledge they do not deem necessary is too much knowledge, and then comes the Chair._

_It forgets even to resist._

_More missions, more murders, and more deaths, always, always deaths._

_It has no regrets. Regret, just like everything else it once had, has been taken from it. There is only the mission._

_The Sleep, the Words, the Handlers, the Mission, the Chair, the Sleep, over and over and over again, endless._

_It obeys, because it cannot not._

_But then a new mission, a shift in the standard protocol, months of consciousness instead of weeks, and something in it grows, something in it awakens, weak, but there, and learning. It is greedy, this thing, and spiteful, and it begins to remember what it was forced to forget._

_And when it has its chance, this thing that is greedy and spiteful takes it, doing something it has not done before and breaking protocol._

_That is how it escapes._

_There are more murders then, because it has become a he, and he wants his freedom. But he is weak and running out of time, and of the two people he once loved more than anyone else, because he remembers that as well, only one is still alive._

_So he searches, seeks her out, finds where she lives, wanting nothing more than to see her face one last time before he dies._

***

Rebecca knew she was a strong woman. No one ever had to tell her that. But as she sat there and listened to Bucky describe everything he’d been through, she never felt so weak or horrified in her life.

It was impossible, inconceivable, every gruesome detail he recounted, and her mind could not begin to comprehend it all, could not fathom this could be done to someone, that there were people in the world not only capable, but willing to do it.

Her body knew how to process it though, or more accurately reject it, and she found herself lurching toward the sink in barely enough time to empty the contents of her own stomach.

When she was finally able to straighten, the taste of bile coating her lips and tongue, he was still sitting at the kitchen table, just as he had when she’d first come home, a quick glance at the digital clock on the microwave told her, two hours ago.

“You’re lying,” she hissed, once she rinsed her mouth out with water and sat back down. “That’s not possible. You’re making this up, or hallucinating or...or…or something.”

“Then how do you explain this?” He held out his arms, holding his body open for her inspection. “You said it yourself, I was skin and bones when you found me. I should be dead, not sitting here at your kitchen table looking like this.”

“I…I…I…”

“And this?” He pulled his sweater off, chest bare, forcing her to confront the reality of his metal arm, the sight of it even more horrifying now she knew how it had been attached, against his will and while he was awake.

“I…I can’t.” And then she was crying, sobbing, her face buried in her hands, because how could she not. She’d seen it for herself, and none of it should have been possible, and yet here he was, with the body of an athlete in his prime, and a metal arm.

That he wrapped around her, cradling her close, letting her cry on his flesh shoulder, for her heart and his, and all the ways they had been broken.

“I’m so sorry, Becca-Bee, so, so sorry,” he murmured into her hair. “I shouldn’t have told you, but you wanted to know. And I thought it was only fair, since I have to leave you.”

That brought her up short.

“What?” she asked, lifting her head. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I have to,” he nodded, wiping her tears away with his fingertips.

“No,” she insisted, clenching his sweater with her fingers, that he’d put back on without her noticing. “No, not when you just got here, not when I just got you back.”

“Becca,” he admonished, steel in his voice, his eyes. “You heard what I just told you. It’s too dangerous. I’m a murderer.”

“So what?” she argued, steel in her own voice, her own eyes.

“So what?” he repeated. “Didn’t you hear a damned word I just said?” And for all that they were arguing, he sounded more like himself than during the previous ten months.

“I was right here, you know,” she snapped back, anger replacing her tears. And the anger was good; she could use it, make it her own, forge steel with it. “And you’re not, not if what you said was true. You didn’t have a choice, they made you do it, and would punish you if you didn’t.”

“Because I was a weak piece of shit.”

“Because you were trying to survive!” she shouted. “And even that wasn’t enough. They had to - had to erase you, turn you into a _thing_ to make you do what they wanted! But as soon as you got a choice, as soon as you remembered what choice was, you got away!”

“And killed four men in the process,” he reminded her.

“My only problem with that is that you did it too quick! You should’ve shit on their faces before you blew their brains out!”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He jerked back in surprise, trying to pull away. But she held on, tightening her grip, refusing to let him go.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she hurled at him. “Because if everything you said is true - and you’re right, I don’t want to believe it, but I have to, because as crazy as it is, it’s the only thing that makes any goddamned sense – then they deserved to die.”

“I’m a weapon - ”

“ _You’re my brother!_ The only family I have left in this world, and I’m not going to lose you, not again.”

“Rebecca!”

“Don’t you _Rebecca_ me, James!” She tugged on his shirt, for all the good it would do her. “And you listen to me, and you listen to me good. You’ve been living in my house, eating all my food for the past ten months, and not once, _not once_ , have you hurt me, even when you were half out of your mind and delirious with withdrawals. So don’t you sit there and try to tell me you’re dangerous!”

“That doesn’t matter,” he shook his head.

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter? Of course it matters.”

“No, it doesn’t.” He wrapped his fingers around her wrists, and for all his arguments about how dangerous he was, they were gentle as they pried her hands from his sweater.

“Why not?” she demanded.

“Because they’re still out there,” he told her quietly. “And they’ll be looking for me. We’ve been lucky so far, but eventually they’re going to come. And we won’t be able to stop them.”

“Why not? You can just kill them like you did the others,” she said. He chuffed at that, an amused snort as he shook his head.

“I can’t believe out of all this, it’s the murdering you have the least amount of problems with.”

“Fuck that,” she sniffed, lifting her chin. “They hurt my big brother. They had it coming, as far as I’m concerned.” He snorted again, as if she were something incomprehensible to him, but then sighed, growing serious once more.

“It’ll be the H-handlers,” he stuttered for the first time. “And they’ll have the W-words.”

“So what? Those words didn’t work the last time.”

“The W-words always work, _always_. They’re a failsafe,” he insisted. “The only reason I was able to get away was because I shoved my fingers into the last H-handler’s mouth before he could say them. They’re not going to give me that chance again, they’re too smart for that.”

“I don’t care.” She knew she sounded like a little girl, but she didn’t. She had more confidence in Bucky than he did in himself. She’d seen for herself how far he’d come, witnessed his remarkable recovery.

“You need to.” It seemed in regard to this, he would not be swayed. “Because if they say them,” he snapped his fingers, “just like that, I’ll be gone. I won’t remember you, and it’ll be like the past ten months never happened. If they order me to, I’ll blow your brains out, without question, because that’s what the Soldier does.

“I couldn’t live with myself if that happened. Please don’t make me have to.”

“It can’t be that easy for them, not after all this time.”

“I can prove it.”

“What?”

“I can prove it to you,” he repeated, rising from his crouch in front of her smoothly, easily, not a single one of his joints popping.

“How?” she asked, tracking him with her eyes as he reached for his bag on the floor.

“With this.” In his hand was a notebook, the same size as the ones her students used in her classes. Except this one was made of red leather, with a black star on its cover, a perfect match to the one on his left arm.

“What’s that?” If she’d been standing, she would have stepped back, because whatever was in the book was terrifying Bucky. He’d grown pale, paler than usual, and his hands, both of them, were shaking.

“Proof.” He placed the book on the table and slid it in her direction. “K-karpov, the last-last H-h-handler, called it my genesis. Said it was the book of my making. It was supposed to go to the next one, when they gave me to him, instructions so he’d know what to do with me. But I stole it when I left.”

“ _It’s an instruction manual?_ ” She could hear the outrage in her voice, feel the fury of it in her blood. She still hesitated to pick it up; because she believed him, she did, but if that book was what he said it was, proof, there would be absolutely no turning back.

“Yes,” he said, cocking his head in the direction of, but not looking at the book. “And if you go to the last page, the very last page, you’ll see ten words, and after that, one more. That’s the one you want. It’s a drop code, the ultimate failsafe, meant to stop me in my tracks.”

“That’s not possible.” She was shaking her head, even as she reached for the book.

“Then say it, and you’ll see for yourself.” He’d started to pace, a frantic _step-step-step, turn, step-step-step_ , back and forth over the linoleum of her kitchen.

“I swear to god Bucky, if you’re lying to me, I’ll never make you any bacon, ever again.” She flipped the book over, and opened the back cover where there indeed was a list of words, followed by a single one, that looked harmless enough.

“I’m not.” _Step-step-step, turn, step-step-step_.

“You know, I’m really staring to question your sanity. Because what you’re saying is impossible. No single word can do what you say it can.”

“Then say –“

“ _Sputnik_ ,” she cut him off, ready to prove him wrong.

And watched in absolute horror as Bucky dropped to the floor like a stone.


	10. 2001 - Rebecca  (Cont'd...)

“Oh god Bucky, I’m sorry. I am so so sorry. Please wake up. I’m begging you. Please.”

It took nearly two hours of her sitting on the kitchen floor with Bucky’s head cradled in her lap, while she sobbed and begged and pleaded for him to wake up, before his eyelids finally fluttered and he opened his eyes.

“Believe me now?” he rasped, immediately shutting his eyes against the brightness of the room.

“Oh Bucky, thank god, thank god,” she breathed, carding her fingers through his hair. “How are you feeling? Are you OK?”

“Head hurts,” he moaned, rolling away from her and slowly hauling himself to his hands and knees. “Gonna be sick…”

“OK, OK, just take it easy and go slow. You’re going to be all right, it’s going to be OK. Just go slow.” _Her_ joints popped as she rose to her feet, even slower than he did, but she ignored it to focus on him. He wasn’t looking good, his skin grey, moving as if his limbs weighed over a thousand pounds as he levered himself to the sink, just in time to vomit. Her poor sink; it was getting a lot of use today.

She spent the next fifteen minutes looking after him, cleaning his face once he was done puking, and then shuffling him over to the couch, where she placed a cool, damp washcloth over his eyes. Once he was as comfortable as she could make him, she sat with him, keeping watch and counting each and every one of his breaths, the red book with its black star long forgotten.

“What the hell was that?” she asked, when some of his color returned and he pulled the washcloth off his face.

“Reset code, like I said,” he mumbled, his eyes still closed. “S’posed to stop me in my tracks. Make me forget everything from the past twenty-four hours.”

“But you remember what we were talking about? Right before?” If that were true, then it might be something they could use.

“Didna work last time either.” He looked so weak, wrung out, as if every word were costing him. “Dropped me, but I remembered. Problem with programming…different…said too long…too long since…”

“Too long since what, Bucky?”

But he was out again, this time sleeping instead of the coma-like state he’d been in before. She sat, watching, making sure the worst of it was over. When nothing happened, his breathing remaining deep and even, she rose to her feet, covered him with an afghan and stormed back into the kitchen.

It was time to see for herself what else was in that fucking book.

***

“Find anything interesting?”

At the sound of Bucky’s voice, she looked up from the _fucking book_ to see him leaning in the doorway, the afghan still draped over his shoulders.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” She closed the cover and rose from her chair, scanning him with her eyes.

“Mission capable, but functionality compromised. Estimated time to full functionality four-point-five hours.”

That was worrisome, especially given the flatness of his voice as he spoke. But after reading that _fucking book_ , she was not as surprised as she would have been that morning.

“Do you think you can eat something?” She did not need what she’d read to know food would help. “It’s just chicken soup, but you usually don’t have a problem keeping that down.” She didn’t wait for him to respond, guiding him to a seat at the table, placing a big bowl of steaming soup in front of him.

“Slowly,” she instructed, pointing to the spoon. “And let me know if you’re still hungry when you’re done. There’s plenty left, but you might need to drink a shake on top of that. You came out of that a lot quicker than you should have, and your body’s probably still fighting off the effects. You’re going to need the calories to fully recover.”

“You read the book,” he said after a dozen spoonfuls.

“I read the _fucking book,_ ” she sneered.

“And?” he asked, spoon paused midway to his mouth.

And…

And it was exactly what he said it was, a goddamned manual on how to not just completely dehumanize a person, but use them as a tool, a weapon of mass destruction. There were schematics on the arm, detailed illustrations of its attachment points, and a list of maintenance instructions. Step by step procedures in preparation for cryostasis, including the recommended caloric intake both before and after the process, to be delivered either intravenously or via a liquid diet. A single, solitary reference to something called _Formula 798F_ and _Case Study 53_ , the only successful subject. There was a list of experiments, what the Asset could endure, and notations on recovery time and healing rates. Then there were diagrams of an electric chair, with its arm restraints and crown, the currents used and frequency of application.

If that were not bad enough, the last third included every single thing that had been done, the torture, the abuse, the measures used to completely destroy a psyche, so what was left was stripped of everything but what could be used to their purposes, unable to perform even the simplest of functions unless specifically instructed otherwise.

To top it all off, the fucking cherry on the shitcake on the “maintenance” of the Asset, were the trigger words. Those were probably the worst, because they didn’t rely on Bucky’s body’s ability to adapt, but were carefully and very deliberately planted traps to ensure his compliance, bombs in his mind set to detonate on their command, that he carried with him everywhere he went. Not only were the trigger words listed, but the expected responses, and in the case of the last one, time to consciousness.

She was no engineer, and she had to admit most of what she read was beyond her understanding, but she found a sick and twisted pleasure in all the redundancies they’d forced on him (drug-addiction, dietary restrictions, tracking devices, program routines to dictate and control his behavior), as well as constant warnings about keeping the Asset out of cryostasis for extended periods of time, especially without recurring sessions in the electric chair.

Apparently _Formula 798F_ worked too well, and even they could not determine the limits of its regenerative capabilities. If given enough time the Asset’s behavior grew erratic, unpredictable, _rebellious_ , and extreme measures were required to regain control. That was why that motherfucker Karpov had been Bucky’s last Handler. He’d been overconfident, not heeding the warnings he’d been given time and time again, underestimating Bucky’s will to survive.

Because for all the horrors in that fucking book, the pure and unadulterated depravity of its authors, the one common thread were all those failsafes, meaning no matter what was done to him, how much of him they erased and cut away, given just the slightest chance, Bucky would start to fight back. He failed, time and time again, and always to his detriment, but he never stopped struggling, pushing, fighting for his freedom, inch by bloody inch.

He’d been alone then, convinced he was abandoned, which was one of the first steps in breaking him. But he wasn’t any longer. He had her now, and while she wasn’t some mad fucking scientist or general with absolutely no regard for humanity, she was intelligent and had spent the past ten months studying psychology. It didn’t make her a doctor, but given Bucky’s astounding ability to heal and his own determination, she was convinced she could figure out a way to undo what they’d done.

“And if you think I’m going to just let you leave, you’re out of your goddamned mind,” she said in the now.

“ _Rebecca_ ,” he growled, his spoon clattering to the table.

“I already told you that doesn’t work on me, _James_ ,” she growled right back, meeting his glare. “I read that _fucking book,_ read it cover to cover –“

“Yeah, and I can see how well that went.” He glanced at the half-filled bottle of whiskey and shot glass on the table in front of her.

“I didn’t say it was easy, I just said that I did it,” she shrugged. “You’d’ve done the same.”

“Then you know how serious this is, how dangerous I am.”

“And I repeat, since you’ve been here, no matter how out of it or delirious you were, you’ve never once hurt me.”

“Until the right person says the W-words.”

“We can undo them!” She slammed her palms on the table.

“Are you out of your mind?” He kept his voice low, but the shout was there, leashed, but waiting to be set free, just like he had.

“No, I’m not,” she insisted. “Because like I said, I read the book, and the one thing they kept going on about was your body’s unpredictable ability to heal itself, even your brain. How do you think you survived that goddamned motherfucking chair?”

“I don’t know,” he was forced to admit.

“And neither did they, not really. And it looks like your brain is already starting to heal itself. When I said what I said, used _that_ word, it did stop you cold, and I am so, so sorry for that, I hope you know that Bucky.” And here she pleaded, because she would never, ever forget the sight of him falling lifelessly to the floor, a marionette whose strings had been cut.

“I told you to do it. You needed to see for yourself, or else you never would have believed me.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t’ve,” it was her turn to concede. “But according to what it says in there,” she scowled at the _fucking book_ , “you were supposed to be completely unresponsive for at least a day. It took you only two hours to open your eyes. And yeah, you needed a six-hour nap after that, but that was more of a crash than a complete shutdown. Not only that, but you immediately remembered what happened, and you shouldn’t have. You should have had no recollection of the previous twenty-four hours, but you did.” He startled at that, jerking back.

“So it looks like your brain is already starting to heal itself, doing what shouldn’t be possible,” she continued. “We can help it along, dig the rest of them out, and get rid of them.”

“It’s still too dangerous. Neither one of us have any idea what’ll happen if we start messing around with them. I don’t know what I’ll do.” To prove his point, he picked up her shot glass with his right hand and tightened his fingers, crushing it. When he opened it, the shards _tinked_ as they landed on the tabletop, the skin of his palm smooth and unblemished. “It’s too big a risk.”

“I liked that glass,” she muttered with a shake of her head.

“Becca!”

“Bucky.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“I know it’s not.”

“You’re eighty years old, you shouldn’t be having to deal with this at your age. You should be enjoying your retirement –“

“Oh fuck you, Bucky,” she cut him off. “I may be eighty years old, but I can still powerwalk circles around your ass.”

“You’re not listening to me. It’s –“

“Don’t you want to be free?” she asked him softly. He froze. “From everything you told me, and everything I read, you’ve been fighting for the past fifty years to get your freedom back. Unless we figure out the triggers, take the power from those words, you never will. You’ll always be running, looking over your shoulder. But if you let me help you, I’m sure we can, and they’ll never be able to drag you back.”

“You really think it can be done?” For the first time, he looked doubtful. Or perhaps hopeful. An uncomfortable combination of the two.

“I’m positive,” she nodded.

“And if I refuse? Sneak out in the middle of the night?”

“Then I’ll walk naked down every single street in the city, screaming ‘hail HYDRA’ at the top of my lungs.”

“You wouldn’t!” He looked horrified.

“Give me a year,” she said instead of answering. “Twelve months to figure it out.”

“Two months,” he countered.

“Eight.”

“Three.”

“Six,” she straightened her spine and looked down her nose at him. “If we haven’t figured something out by six months, if there are no changes, then I’ll admit defeat, and let you go on your way.” She wouldn’t, but that was an argument for another day. And she was positive there would be enough proof by then.

He stared at her, studying every inch of her body, the veracity of her expression.

“Are you giving me your teacher look?” he finally asked.

“Six months,” she repeated, ignoring his attempt at distraction. (And yes, yes she was.)

“It’s still too risky, Becca-Bee,” he said with yet another shake of his head. “They’re going to be looking for me.”

“And they haven’t found you yet,” she volleyed. “We’ll be careful.” She leaned forward, reaching out to take his hand in her own.

“We can do this Bucky, I know we can. Let me help you. _Please._ ”

From the mantel, her clock ticked, and the floors creaked as the house settled itself for the evening. His soup grew cold, but his hand stayed warm against hers, as he took breath after breath after breath, trying to come to a decision when he hadn’t had that option for over fifty years.

“Fine,” he finally, _finally,_ agreed, looking as if it had cost him. “Six months.”

“Thank you,” she sighed, squeezing his hand before letting him go and leaning back.

“I still think you’re insane,” he grumbled.

“Yeah well, you wouldn’t be the first,” she waved his comment off. “Now finish your soup. We’ve got work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who has commented or kudoed, I just wanted to say thank you. Your comments and support always make me smile. And even if you haven't commented or kudoed, but are still reading this story, thank you too. I hope you're still enjoying it. 
> 
> Also, there might, just might, be an extra chapter posted this week because of the holiday in the US. We'll see. 😎


	11. 2001 - Rebecca  (Cont'd...)

It wasn’t easy. She knew it wouldn’t be; in spite of what Bucky may have thought, she wasn’t naïve.

But still, it wasn’t easy.

That didn’t mean she was going to give up. She’d always prided herself on her intelligence. If she could transform a student with a third-grade level of reading comprehension into a confident young adult who graduated with a love of Shakespeare, top marks in their AP English classes and a college scholarship over the course of four years, she could accomplish this. It would just take determination, persistence and focus. And time. Thankfully, being retired meant she had more of that than she did fifteen years ago, and she set herself to it with a will.

At least she wasn’t starting from scratch. She spent the previous ten months studying psychology in an attempt to gain a better understanding of what was going on with her brother, so she was already familiar with the terminology and various schools of thought. She was a quick reader, with a sharp memory in spite of her age, knew how to analyze information and search for further resources. She was certain she could find a way to free Bucky from those goddamned trigger words.

The problem was while she had more information than previously in regard to Bucky’s condition, she also had even more questions. And from everything she’d read so far, his situation seemed to be unique. Then again, not many doctors, at least not ones with an interest in helping their patients instead of enslaving them, published their work in reliable journals. There were studies on psychological warfare, sensory deprivation and enforced isolation, which she devoured, but those discussed the effects and not a means of treatment.

The other issue was that psychology was an art just as much as it was a science. There was still so much unknown about the human brain, nature versus nurture, and what worked for one person didn’t always work for another. There were drugs which appeared to help, but she did not have access to any of those, or enough knowledge to even consider administering them. Given what she’d observed and read about Bucky’s enhanced metabolism, she questioned their efficacy anyway.

But she refused to give up, expanding her research to include not only case studies and medical journals, but personal blogs and forums as well. If there was one common theme to any of it, it was patience and persistence, compassion and understanding, and the development of an instinct to know when to step back and compromise, or when to remain steady and help the patient push through and face their issues.

Research wasn’t the only thing she focused on however. Bucky had been a prisoner of war for over fifty years, was probably the longest prisoner of war in existence. There were not only the trigger words, but the PTSD and trauma caused by half a century of captivity, brutal torture and dehumanization. Those would all also need to be addressed if there was to be any hope for his recovery.

“You can talk to me about it, you know,” she told him three days after their conversation in the kitchen.

“About what?” he eventually mumbled after far too long. He was having a bad day, mostly non-verbal, avoiding eye contact.

“About what you went through,” she placed a mug of hot chocolate in front of him on the coffee table.

“I thought I already did.”

“You told me about what happened to you,” she corrected, settling herself on the opposite end of the couch. “But not what it was like for you, how it made you feel.”

“How you think?” A quick dart of his eyes to her face, then back down his hands.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “That’s why I’m asking.”

“Horrible,” he muttered.

“I get that, but I think you need to be more specific,” she pressed.

“Why do you want to know? Is this part of your research?” he asked.

“A bit,” she admitted with a nod. “But I also think you need to talk about it. That if you don’t, it’s just going to keep eating you up inside.”

“You don’t need to hear about that, Becca-Bee,” he shook his head. “You’ve already done so much for me, are still doing so much. You don’t need all that crap on top of it.”

“I’ve said it to you before, and I’ll say it to you again. You let me decide what I can and can’t handle.” She took another chance, one of so many she’d been taking lately, and slid closer to him, reaching out with a clear intent not to harm but to merely rest her hand upon his knee. “You’re not alone anymore, Bucky. I’m here, and I want to help. Let me take some of the burden so you’re not carrying it all by yourself. I can handle it. Let me help you. In spite of appearances, my shoulders are plenty strong enough.”

He stared at her hand on his knee, his jaw clenched, tension visible in the tendons of his neck. He didn’t say anything for a long time, but eventually some of his tightness released.

“Yeah, I know. It’s all that yoga you’ve been doing.” And there, _there it was,_ the beginnings of a tiny smile, the first one she’d seen all day.

“Don’t mock it, it works,” she chuckled.

“So you say.” He leaned forward to pick up the mug, cradling the warmth in his hands. “And I can’t Becca-Bee, I can’t. I know you want to help, but I just can’t.”

“All right,” she agreed, for now. “But you are going to have to talk about it, or at least get it out. I understand why no one can know, but we’re still going to have to find a way to deal with it.”

“We’ll see,” he deferred, taking a sip of his chocolate, and then refused to say another word for the rest of the day.

That was all right. She was a stubborn old bitch. She’d find a way.

***

“What’s this?” Bucky asked two days later when she presented him with three notebooks, a box of markers and a set of pens.

“What does it look like?” she retorted, shoving the plastic bags into the cabinet where she stored the extras.

“Notebooks.” He was grumpy today. That was fine with her. While still generally hesitant to express any emotion, he was getting better at it. She would take grumpiness over silence or submissiveness any day. At least the grumpiness was familiar.

“A-plus to my favorite student,” she chirped.

“Becca-Bee,” he growled. She sighed and turned to face him.

“Yes, they’re notebooks, but not really.” His face grew blank at her words, and this time she held in her sigh. He thought she was testing him, and he didn’t know the answer. His instincts were to withdraw, close the shutters and lock down his personality in order to avoid punishment. It was how he’d survived for as long as he had. She needed to remember that, and always tread carefully.

“This isn’t a test Bucky, and there aren’t any wrong answers.” Clarity and reassurance were crucial for someone dealing with Bucky’s issues. “And those are for you, to use however you see fit. I meant what I said the other day about you needing to find some way to deal with how what you went through made you feel. Since you can’t,” _won’t, at least not yet,_ “talk to me about it, I thought maybe you could use those instead.”

“Notebooks?” he said, and there was just the slightest accent in his voice. She’d noticed it before and thought it some remnant of what he’d been through, a speech pathology. But now that she knew what happened to him, and read that _fucking book_ , she recognized it for what it was; a slight Russian accent. It meant he’d regressed, at least mentally, returning to a state that was more than likely not comfortable, but at least familiar to him. It was a coping mechanism, one she doubted he was aware of. She wouldn’t call him on it, or try to take it away from him, especially when he had so few of those. She could only hope what she was offering him would help.

“Technically, yes, but they’re for you,” she forged on. “If you can’t talk about it yet, then write it down. Or draw it. Hell, if it’ll help just make hashmarks on the paper. Whatever you want. Consider it a journal, a sketchbook, or even a diary. They’re yours to do whatever you want with.” She didn’t step closer or reach out for him; for as still as he was, she could read his body language well enough by now to know any physical proximity would not be welcome. She would not violate that boundary, not when all of his boundaries had already been so brutally violated.

“And that’s the thing I want you to remember most. They’re _yours_ , and no one else’s. I won’t read them, look at or even touch them, I promise,” she swore to him. “The only thing I ask is that you let me know if you run out of pages and need more. Then we’ll get you some. Now, what do you want for lunch?”

***

She didn’t know if he ever made use of them. Or at least, not at first.

But two months later, he asked for more, even going so far as to request one with bumble bees on the cover.

***

Bucky’s bodily autonomy was another issue she knew needed to be addressed. Not only had he been mutilated, modified, tortured against his will, but forced to believe his body was an object, a tool, to only be used as others saw fit. He hadn’t even been allowed to eat, one of the simplest and most basic of pleasures a person could have.

That had changed at least, and now that he was consuming more than enough calories to sustain him, he happily ate anything she put in front of him.

But that was only part of the problem; the rest still needed to be addressed.

“You want me to start doing yoga with you?” he asked the day she came home from her class with a second yoga mat.

“Yep,” she brushed by him and into the living room. “Now c’mon, help me move the coffee table out of the way so we have more room.”

“But…why?” And oh, that was a hard question for him to ask, to express doubt and request clarification.

“Because I think it’ll be good for you,” she explained. “And you could probably use the exercise. It’s been a while since you’ve done anything physically challenging.”

“The Soldier was designed to be perfect. It has mastered over a hundred forms of martial arts, hand-to-hand combat, endurance training and ballet. It has perfect coordination, reflexes and balance, and requires minimal maintenance to retain these qualities.”

Two steps forward, one step back. As disquieting as these abrupt status reports often were, she thought them a good sign. It meant Bucky wasn’t forcing himself to conceal these aspects of himself from her, was allowing the disparate parts of his personality to bleed through. It was progress, and she could work with that.

She straightened, turned and walked over to him, stopping less than a foot away, looking into his eyes. This was also important, letting all sides of him see she was not afraid of him. He blinked at her once, twice, then a third time, before releasing a small sigh and shaking his head.

“Hi,” she said to him when her brother, and not the Soldier, finally met her eyes.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Couldn’t help it.”

“Don’t be,” she smiled to show him she wasn’t upset. “Do I have your permission to touch you? But only if you want me to, only if it’s _really_ OK.” He took a moment to decide, before he nodded, and she reached up to cup his cheek. It seemed to soothe him a little, if the way he pressed into her palm was any indication.

“I didn’t know you studied ballet.” She ran her thumb over his cheekbone, a slow, gentle back and forth stroke.

“I…didn’t remember until just now either,” he sounded confused.

“Did you enjoy it?” she asked.

“I…think so?” His eyebrows twitched. “There was a room…with a barre…and a woman, she had these earrings, they used to sparkle, and – and a cane, I think…She would hit the little girls with it…Six of them, maybe? They were pretty, and we used to dance together…I felt bad for them, but at least when we danced I could make them smile, and that made it not so bad, I think.”

“Then I’m glad you have that memory,” even if she was revolted by the idea of a woman hitting little girls with a cane. She rose up on her tiptoes to kiss his forehead, and then stepped back. He was soft now, with tender new skin revealed, and she did not want to risk rubbing it raw.

“Anyway, yoga’s a lot like ballet. It’s about flexibility, balance and control. If you liked ballet then I think you’ll enjoy it. Now let’s get this out of the way so we have enough room.” She nodded at the table.

“It doesn’t look that hard, from what I’ve seen.” It appeared that no matter what he’d been through, her big brother was still a jerk.

“Yeah, just you wait until we get to the King Pigeon Pose, then you can tell me about how hard it is.”

He took to it like a fish to water. Of course he did. He’d been modified to be a perfect physical specimen, and just like he said, he had astounding balance, flexibility and endurance. Watching him slide, bend and slip from one pose into another was like watching a marble sculpture come to life. But for as beautiful, as perfect, as he was to watch, there was still something off about it, as if his actions were lacking the right intent.

“Bucky stop,” she said, when it finally clicked and she could identify what it was about his movements that bothered her.

“What am I doing wrong?” he asked, immediately freezing.

“You’re not doing anything wrong, don’t worry, now stop frowning and come sit here next to me.” She patted the mat at her side.

“Then what’s the matter?” He looked worried, and that wasn’t her intent, not at all. “I thought I was doing everything you said.”

“You are.” She paused to consider what to say next, find the right words to use so he would understand. “But that’s just it, you’re performing the poses, not feeling them.”

“I…I don’t understand.” He was honestly confused, and her heart ached for him, for all he had lost.

“Yoga is about more than just holding a pose, or hitting a mark. In fact, the poses are probably the least important thing about it.” From the look on his face, that only confused him even more. “Don’t get me wrong, they are important. But it’s not so much about performing a Downward Dog, but how it makes you _feel_. The lengthening of your spine, how it stretches your hamstrings, the stillness in your core, and how to breathe through it. It’s not about what your body can do, but working with it, connecting to it. Clearing your mind and feeling that connection, nourishing and enjoying it. Until there’s nothing else, but just that understanding, that trust. Then there’s just you, and your body and the breath, and a calm you didn’t know was possible. _That’s_ what yoga is all about.”

“Is that what you get out of it?” he eventually asked.

“It is,” she nodded. “It’s why I love it so much.”

“I don’t think I can do that,” he mumbled, lowering his face to hide behind his hair. It was long enough he could do that now.

“It takes time and practice,” she assured him. “But once you do get there, you’ll never want to stop. Now,” she straightened her spine, “let’s just sit here and breathe for a bit. That’s where it all starts, with your breathing, and it’s always good to start from the beginning.”

It took time for him to truly grasp what she’d been trying to teach him, but when the understanding came and he embraced the concept, the transformation was breathtaking. He’d been agile in his youth, physically fit and full of energy. Upon his return, once his body recovered, his movements were silent and precise. But as soon as he stopped thinking so much, reclaiming his body instead of believing it to be nothing more than a machine, he became the essence of movement, of grace, of unbelievable beauty that was astounding to watch.

The spread of a bird’s wings in preparation for flight. Clouds rolling across a summer sky. Wind in your hair and the cresting of a wave was what she saw, felt, whenever she watched him. It was glorious to see, and she relished the fact she had been the one to give this to him, give him back a sense of belonging in his own body.

His muttered, _“Shut up,”_ when she woke up one morning to find him already in the middle of the Sun Salutation before breakfast only made it even more worth it.

“Told you.”

***

“Now what?” he asked, staring at the block of wood and knife she dropped into his lap.

“Art therapy,” she announced.

“Art therapy?”

“Art therapy,” she repeated, this time with a firm nod.

“This is a piece of wood.” He was back to squinting at her. “And a knife. Which if you paid attention to anything I told you, you know _I shouldn’t be anywhere near_ , especially if you’re in the same room as me.”

“ _P’shaw,_ ” she waved his comment off. “If you were going to kill me, you’d’ve done it by now.”

“That’s not funny, Rebecca! You can’t – you can’t joke about that.” He looked devastated, horrified, frightened, and she once again regretted her choice of words.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, kneeling in front of him. “I know it’s not a joke, I was teasing you, a little bit, like I used to.” His eyes were closed, and he was biting his lip, hard enough to draw blood. “Hey. Hey, look at me Bucky, look at me.” When he finally did, she smiled at him. “I’m sorry, all right? I didn’t mean to scare you, and I’ll try not to do it again, OK?”

“OK,” he whispered, the block of wood and knife forgotten in his lap. She decided to remind him; that had been the point of this, after all.

“You used to, you know,” she nodded at the wood.

“Used to what?” he asked.

“Whittle,” she said.

“What?” He blinked at her.

“Da taught you,” she smiled at him. “He used to do it too, whenever he had a free moment, and you were fascinated by it. He started teaching you as soon as you were old enough, and you used to do it all the time.”

“I did?”

“Yep. In fact,” she rose to her feet. “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.” When she returned from her bedroom, he was exactly where she’d left him.

“Here, look.” She held out her left hand, showing him a perfectly formed rosebud in full bloom. “Go on, it’s OK, you can take it.” His fingers were hesitant as he reached for it, but his eyes curious as he gave it a slow, careful inspection.

“It’s beautiful,” he eventually said.

“Da made that one,” she told him. “Gave it to me on my wedding day, to carry in my bouquet, so I’d always have one of the roses to keep with me.”

“I wish I had been there,” he murmured, carefully stroking the petals of the rose with both of his hands, metal and flesh exploring the wood.

“I do too, but you’re here now, and that’s all that matters,” she admitted. “But that’s not what I wanted to show you. This is what I wanted to show you.” She uncurled her fingers and extended her right hand.

“Da made me that rose, but you made this for me. Gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday.”

He shifted his gaze, his eyes widening when they landed on the small figurine resting on her palm.

“That’s…that’s…”

“A bumble bee,” she finished for him. And it was. No bigger than a walnut, it had a chubby, little body, perfectly formed wings, two antennae, and wide eyes. There were even etch-marks on the body, in opposite directions to indicate stripes.

“Becca-Bee.” He said it not as if it were her name, but a revelation, one of his puzzle pieces that finally fit. “Because you were my bumble bee.”

“You always called me that,” she laughed. “You were the only one. I would have punched anyone else who tried to.”

“I made that?”

“You did.”

“And you kept it, all this time?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because you gave it to me, and I missed you.”

He didn’t touch it, just stared and stared at stared at it. She could see it though, he was reaching for something, searching through the fog, trying to find it, and she knew not to interrupt.

“You were the first thing I remembered, from before. You and - ” He cut himself off, his shutters coming down. That was interesting, because she was certain she knew what he’d been about to say, whose name had been on his lips. But he never, not once, in all the time he’d been back, ever said Steve’s name, and she couldn’t help but wonder why. She decided to let it lie for now, circle the conversation around to her original point.

“Anyway, like I said, you used to whittle all the time, and as you can see, you were very good at it.” She carefully placed the bee on the coffee table in front of him. “And everybody needs a creative outlet. It’s a way to express things you might not have the words for yet.”

“Art therapy,” he grunted.

“Yeah, art therapy.” She knew she sounded smug. “But really, it’s just another outlet, like the journals I gave you, and I thought it might help. It can also be relaxing to have something to do with your hands while your mind sorts things out.”

“Like your needlepoint?” he asked. She had taken to sitting with a pile of embroidery in her lap at the end of the day while they watched television. It was an old hobby, an inheritance from her mother, and it was a pleasant distraction from all her worries.

“Ma taught me how to do that,” she grinned. “Said it was a proper thing for young girls to be doing, instead of running wild in the streets.”

“I don’t think that ever stopped you,” he said, sounding surprised by his own words.

“It didn’t,” she laughed again. “But I have to admit, it saved a hell of a lot of money on my wedding veil. And I enjoy it now, find it relaxing. Which was my entire point.”

“I don’t think I remember how.” He looked down at the block of wood still in his lap. “Or what I should make.”

“I’m sure it’ll come back to you,” she insisted. “And if it doesn’t, we can find some books. As for what to make,” she shrugged, “whatever you want. I don’t care what it is. Just like with the journals, I won’t even look if you don’t want me to. Just thought it might be something for you to try.”

“Art therapy.”

“Art therapy.”

***

He didn’t start right away. Or if he did, it wasn’t where she could see. But she did begin to find pieces of wood in the trash can, discarded shavings, and crushed objects that might have once been contorted figures, a twisted brain and angry, jagged shapes. She left them where they were.

And eventually, after the end of another long day of research, frustrated inquiries and dead ends, they started sitting together on opposite ends of the couch, her with her needlepoint and him with a block of wood and a new, sharper, whittling knife, the repeated _sssss-sssss-sssss_ of her thread, and _scrape-scrape-scrape_ of his knife the only sounds in the room.

The morning she found a tiny trinket waiting for her in her coffee mug was one of the best days in her life, and all she could do was laugh and laugh as she placed the second bumble bee, smaller and a bit more lopsided than the first, but all the more precious because of it, next to its big sister on her night table.

***

It didn’t just go one way.

While she spent most of her time looking for something, anything, that would help Bucky, he spent most of his looking after her. He took on more of the cooking, nearly all of it, his skills improving as a result. He also tasked himself with the housework, and her floors had never been so shiny, her carpets as vacuumed, or her laundry as fresh. When she tried to insist he didn’t have to, he waved her off and said, “You’re already doing most of the work. I can handle the rest. It’s only fair.”

He didn’t just take care of the house; he also started looking after her, and setting limits.

“Enough,” he announced one day, actually pulling the book she’d been reading out of her hands.

“But Bucky,” she said, reaching for it.

“Enough,” he repeated, bookmarking the page and closing the cover. “You’ve been at this for hours, and you’re not getting anywhere. You need a break, Becca-Bee. Go take a walk around the lake, or to one of your underwater jumping jacks classes – “

“It’s called aqua-aerobics,” she interrupted.

“Whatever. Just go do it. You need the break, and it’ll help clear your head. You always come back more focused when you do.” He wasn’t wrong about that. “Besides, you need to find out if Priscilla had her baby yet. She looked ready to pop last week.”

“Wait a minute! How do you even know that?” She squinted at him. “Have you been following me?”

“Of course I have,” he admitted easily enough. “It’s my job to make sure you’re safe, no matter where you are or what you’re doing.”

“What happened to no one can know you’re here?” she wanted to know.

“Nobody does know I’m here,” was his answer. “I’m very good at what I do. The best. You didn’t even know I was following you, and I’ve been doing it for months.”

“ _Months?_ ”

“Now go,” he waved her off. “And you might want to check in on Cindy. Her husband’s been cheating on her with their next-door neighbor.”

“Amanda?”

“No. Adam.”

“ _Her husband?_ ”

“Will you just go?”

***

That conversation, disturbing as it was, did lead to another, one they needed to have.

“We’re eventually going to have to tell them something,” she said that evening, over the baked chicken Bucky prepared for dinner. “Once the trigger words are gone and you’re free.”

“Tell who what?” he asked, lowering his fork.

“Tell them who you are, and why you’ve been living with me.” The chicken was delicious, as were the roasted vegetables he’d included as a side dish. “You can’t just stay in the house forever, although you apparently have been going out behind my back.”

“It’s called reconnaissance, and it’s for your own safety.”

“ _Never-the-less_ , we’re still going to eventually have to come up with something. I don’t think we can just say you’re my long-lost brother returned from the dead.”

“No, we can’t. Not unless we want to attract a lot of attention from the wrong people,” he shook his head.

“Can we say that you’re a distant relative, a second-cousin, or maybe my youngest son, or grandson even?” she suggested. “We look enough alike.”

“You don’t have any children,” he countered.

“Yeah, but,” she swallowed, “nobody here knows that.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Bobbi and I hadn’t lived here very long, before he died.” She lowered her own fork, suddenly not hungry anymore. “And we spent most of that time fixing up the house, not really socializing. And then after…after the funeral, nobody really asked, and it wasn’t like I wanted to talk about it, so they really don’t know much about my family.”

It was the truth. For as loud and as gregarious as the Barnes family had been, that was only amongst themselves, and were generally private people. That hadn’t changed when Bobbi died, and her neighbors and new acquaintances had all been respectful, not asking too many questions. She had friends now, but she had never shared too much of her past with them. Why would she, when it was filled with so much loss? She always preferred to look to the future and all its possibilities, instead of at the past and the pain she had no choice but to overcome.

“We can say that we were estranged, and you’re my grandson, coming to spend time with me?” she offered.

“It’s not a bad idea,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “Need to flesh it out some more. Maybe my parents died, to explain why I’m here. I’d have to be thorough though, make sure all the correct documentation’s in place, able to withstand a background check. Insert the information instead of falsify it.”

“You can do that?” she asked.

“I couldn’t be a Barnes though. It would trip too many red flags.”

“You can do that?” she asked again.

“A completely foolproof identity was often a vital component of missions, especially if it was a long-term assignment,” he responded, in more of the Soldier’s voice than Bucky’s.

“And you know how to do that?” she reiterated for the third time.

“Yes,” he nodded. “I was trained to adapt to all possibilities and counter any complications that may arise. Espionage and intelligence gathering were often components of missions, especially earlier on. It was counterproductive to the mission to run the risk of discovery.”

“Okay.” She didn’t know why she was surprised.

“But,” and just like that, he was Bucky again, and not the Soldier, “if, and only if, we can rid of the W-words. And only if it’s safe after that.”

“You just leave that to me,” she said, feeling like she was back on a more even footing. “You just work on-on inserting the information or whatever it is you need to do. You can be a Proctor. Bobbi and I always hoped our firstborn would be a son.” Then she picked up her fork and finished her chicken.

***

“Can I ask you something?” she said, looking up from the _fucking book_ to where Bucky was folding their laundry.

“Yes,” he answered without looking at her. It was another bad day, and he was mostly quiet, focusing on his self-assigned tasks. That, along with some of his previous behavior, her own research, and what she’d just reread in the _fucking book_ , was making her draw a very uncomfortable conclusion.

“When you first came here, did you know I was your sister, or did you think I was a handler?” She dreaded the answer, but needed to know.

“At first,” he paused his folding and stood with his head lowered. _Jesus-fucking-Christ._

“But you know I’m not your handler now, right?” His continuing silence was answer enough.

“ _Bucky!_ ” she gasped, horrified. “I’m not your handler, _I’m not!_ That’s-that’s _disgusting,_ and I would never and if you think that’s what I am, or that I expect some-some subservience from you -“

“That’s actually a good thing, Becca-Bee,” he interrupted her, picking up a dishtowel.

“How could that possibly be a good thing? Everything we’re doing is because I want to make sure you’re free from those sons of bitches!” She slammed the book down on the tabletop.

“It’s a good thing, because it means I’ll never hurt you. I can’t. The programming won’t allow me to.” He put the neatly folded towel down and began sorting the socks. “And I know you’re not my H-handler. You’re my sister. Most days, anyway,” he shrugged. “But at first, it was the only thing that made any sense to me. And you were a good H-handler, the best one I ever had. You didn’t hurt or abuse me. You took care of me, fed me, and never used the W-words. I was happy to serve you, if it meant I got to stay with you. And I wanted to protect you, keep you safe.” He picked up another towel. “Always did, still do. There are no contradictions between what I want and the programming this time, and sometimes that’s just easier for me.”

“I fucking hate them,” she hissed, meaning it more than almost anything she’d ever said.

“I know you do. I do too.” He looked at her for the first time that day. “But I will always value your life above mine. I’m your big brother. It’s what I was born to do.”

***

As disturbing as that information was, it was another puzzle piece, one she needed to factor into anything else she discovered. No detail was too small, no tidbit, no matter how difficult to swallow, inconsequential. The more information he gave her, the more he was able to contribute to the process, the more likely they were to succeed.

And he did help, more and more each day, more than he likely realized.

When she discovered something that sounded promising, she would point it out to him, ask him to read it and provide her with his opinion. Sometimes he would agree, and other times he would discard it, shaking his head and saying, “No, that doesn’t feel right to me.” When she asked him to explain, he said, “I don’t think I have amnesia. I think the memories are still there, there’s just something blocking them.”

“So you’re getting more of them back?”

“Some of them, not all of them, but more and more every day. They still don’t make sense, and I have to figure out the context, rearrange them so they fit, but yeah, I remember more now than I did.”

“That shit-stain of a doctor was right then. The more time you spend free, the more time your brain has to undo all the damage done to it.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely,” she said, and went back to her research.

If she asked him to read one of the books she’d taken out from the library, the passages she thought relevant marked with sticky notes, within twenty-four hours he would return it to her, his own notations under hers.

When additional books started arriving from Amazon, once she gave him permission (and she hated having to do that, but he refused to open the boxes on his own otherwise), they often spent mornings side by side at the kitchen table, searching for answers. He was a fast reader, with a picture-perfect retention rate, and often finished three books in the time it took her to read one.

But then again, he’d always been extremely intelligent, receiving the highest marks in all his classes. An avid reader, brilliant at math, with a very good memory, and an attention to detail. For all that he sometimes stated in his Soldier’s voice that he was designed to be perfect, she knew that wasn’t it. Those bastards only utilized what was already there. They tried to eliminate what they didn’t want, and sharpened what they did into a razor’s edge. If she wasn’t mortified by the very idea of it, she would have told them that had been their biggest mistake. Because he was and always had been greater than the sum of his parts, and when those parts started to regain their cohesion, the very first thing their slave did was turn on his masters.

It wasn’t like they didn’t deserve it.

Weeks passed, and they continued their search for answers. If Bucky grew frustrated, he never let it show. There had been plenty of contradictory information, and dead ends. But if anything, she was starting to feel hopeful, because…

“I think this Dr. Zendale may be onto something,” she announced one night, after finishing the second book by a doctor who worked in the psychology department of Sloan-Kettering.

“Why do you think that?” Bucky looked up from the wood he’d been whittling.

“She’s been doing research on post-traumatic-stress-disorders, working with other vets, and victims of extreme abuse. But she’s been studying phobias and triggers, focusing on the ways they effect the brain, and how to overcome them. She’s had a lot of success helping people everyone else thought was a lost cause.” She flipped the book over to read the author’s bio on the back. “Graduate of Harvard, three doctorates, and over thirty years of experience. And a lot of what she’s written seems applicable to you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she murmured absently. Her mind was racing, because they were close, she knew it, could feel it in her bones. “I think I’m going to send her an email.”

***

Of course it wasn’t as easy as all that.

Before she was allowed to even open her email program, Bucky insisted on doing something to her computer.

“Why?” she asked.

“I’m making sure anything you send is untraceable,” was his response.

“You can do that?” He squinted at her. “Right, right, best at what you do, perfect, prepare for all possible eventualities.”

“I’m also downloading some additional firewalls and security protocols, as well as virus protection.”

“Additional?”

Another squint.

“Right, right, because of course you already have.” She paused to stare at him. “Could you also hack into, I dunno, a bank or the IRS or something?”

“Given enough time,” his fingers clacked on the keyboard.

“Right,” she squeaked.

After that, he insisted on reviewing every single word in her email, deleting some sentences, and changing others. That made sense, and she was grateful for his input; they needed to be specific, while avoiding giving away too many details, in order to get the answers they were searching for. Finally, after three hours of edits and revisions, he allowed her to hit the send button.

***

Thankfully Dr. Helena Zendale responded almost immediately to Becca’s initial introductory email, with a bibliography of further reading, and additional suggestions for treatment options for Becca’s poor and obviously traumatized nephew from a brutal tour of duty in Afghanistan. Becca wrote her back, providing additional but opaque details, with Bucky’s approval, and so began a very vigorous and informative email exchange. While extremely qualified and successful in her work, because she was a woman, Dr. Zendale’s accomplishments were being overlooked, and she was more than willing to discuss those findings with someone who was not only well-read, but wanted to discuss her findings with her. Her emails were detailed, informative, and the options she discussed had enough flexibility to be adapted to Bucky’s situation. She strongly encouraged Becca to bring her nephew to either her offices, or one from the list she included in her third email, but when Becca replied cost was an issue, Dr. Zendale offered additional suggestions that could be applied.

And then, three weeks after the first email had been sent, Becca had her answer.

***

“Exposure therapy.”

“What?”

“Exposure therapy.”

“What’s that?” Bucky asked.

“It’s exactly what it sounds like,” Becca said. “Repeat exposure to the source of the triggers, but this time in a safe and secure environment, so your brain overwrites the trauma it’s experienced, and replaces it with a positive association instead of a negative one.”

“And what does that involve, precisely?”

“That means, Bucky, that we’ve got to say the trigger words over and over again, until they no longer have an effect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's an extra chapter for everyone this week. If you're in the US, I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving tomorrow however you're celebrating it. If you're in another part of the world, I hope you're happy, safe and able to spend time with the ones you love. 🧡
> 
> The next chapter will be posted on Friday as usual, but I hope you enjoyed this one. =)


	12. 2001 - Rebecca  (Cont'd...)

They argued about it, of course they did, for nearly a week. Bucky thought it too risky, didn’t want to take the chance. But Bucky wasn’t the only stubborn Barnes in the room, and Becca was convinced this would work.

“Read what she’s saying,” she said, over and over again.

“I have,” he said, pointing at the computer. “It’s still too risky. She said there could be flashbacks or violent outbursts.”

“In extreme cases.”

“I am an extreme case!”

“And your brain has already started the process, we’ve proved that.” For all that he was angry, she was calm, cool, collected. She knew this would work, if Bucky would only agree to give it a chance. “And it’s not as risky as someone from HYDRA showing up and saying them. It’s just going to be me, your sister, and I’m trying to help you, not hurt you.”

“That’s the problem Rebecca, it’s just going to be you, all by yourself, facing whatever I become when you say the W-words.”

“Don’t you trust me?” She knew it was dirty, but he was refusing to see sense.

“You know I do.” He sounded so bereft, heartbroken as he said it.

“Then trust me now. This is going to work, I know it.”

***

It took another week before Bucky finally agreed, and he would only do it if she made compromises of her own.

“You want me to learn how to shoot a gun?”

They were in the middle of an abandoned field, at least twenty miles away from any signs of civilization.

“Yes,” Bucky insisted.

“ _Are you crazy?_ ” She stepped back from him and the weapon he was casually holding in his hand.

“If I am, I’m not the only one.” He took a step closer. “Now come here.”

“I’m not going to shoot you!” She shook her head.

“You might have to.” He was so calm, so comfortable with the gun in his hand. “You’re going to say the W-words, and that’s going to activate the Soldier.” He held up a hand, preventing her from interrupting. “At least at first.”

“Yeah but you said that-that part of you recognizes me as a handler. And you can’t hurt a handler, it violates the programming. All I have to do is order the programming to let you go, and then you’ll come back. We do that enough, and your brain will overwrite itself.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” he shrugged. “We’re venturing into uncharted territory, and I don’t know what’s going to happen. There could be a subroutine that compels me to surrender myself to the nearest base. I had to fight one off before. Maybe the Soldier will see you as a H-handler, maybe it won’t. Or maybe there’s a failsafe we don’t know about, that won’t allow it to recognize anybody but a predetermined list of H-handlers having control, and I’ll attack you. If there’s even a hint of that, you need to put me down, before I can hurt you.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” He stepped closer, gun still at his side. “And I won’t take no for an answer. You started this Rebecca, and you’re convinced it’s going to work. Me, I’m not so sure. But I’m agreeing to try. But this is the compromise. If you won’t do this, I’m calling the whole thing off and I’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

“You mean that, don’t you?” she asked, feeling her resolve melt away.

“I do.” There was absolutely no compromise in him.

“All right, fine, you win,” she conceded. “Teach me how to shoot that damned thing.”

“It’s not a thing, it’s a gun.” He held it up so she could see it. “This is a Walther CCP M2, loaded with nine-millimeter hollow point rounds. It’s got an easy slide, and more importantly, very little recoil, which makes it perfect for someone your age.”

“Well, at least you took my age into consideration,” she whimpered.

“Of course I did,” he acknowledged, all Soldier now. “Normally I would tell you to aim for the head, that’s an instant kill shot, but you don’t have any experience handling a weapon, and that kind of accuracy takes time to develop.

“Instead, you’re going to aim for my chest. It’s a bigger target, with a larger center mass, and a well-placed shot should drop me. Or at least slow me down enough for you to get away.”

“Oh god.”

***

A week later, they both had very different feelings about her ability to handle a weapon.

“Not bad,” Bucky complimented, the fifth time she managed to shoot all six of the cans he’d lined up in a row in under ten seconds. Becca lowered the gun, pointing the barrel downward, automatically flicking the safety on. He’d been right, the recoil wasn’t so bad, and she felt much more confident in her ability to aim and shoot than she had seven days ago. “I don’t know why the Army never let women enlist during World War Two. You’d’ve been a crack shot.”

“Their loss.” She couldn’t help but feel just the teeny, tiniest bit smug.

“Now come on, Annie Oakley, one more round and then we’ll go home.”

***

Then there was nothing left for them but to begin.

“How do you keep finding these places?” she frowned, looking around the empty, abandoned warehouse. This was another compromise Bucky insisted on. Since he still wasn’t sure how he would react, he refused to let her activate the Soldier in her house. He claimed there was not enough room for her to get away if he attacked, nor did he want to risk the lives of any innocent by-standers. He’d climbed into the backseat of her Toyota, directing her to drive south on Route 80 for twenty minutes. Then they’d switched, and he spent the next forty minutes taking a very circuitous route, circling back multiple times, always checking the rearview mirror, before finally parking the car behind a decrepit building, where they now stood.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know,” she said, when he merely squinted at her. “It’s your job, best at what you do, blah-blah-blah.”

“Rebecca.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry.” She slid the first-aid kit, part of her compromise, to the moldy ground, and took a second look around the room. It was a large, cavernous space, with ancient fixtures and not a single piece of furniture, the most important aspect according to him, since there was nothing within reach he could turn into a weapon.

Not that he needed one.

But it would have to do.

“Where do you want to do this?” she asked.

“Here’s as good a spot as any,” he decided. “But stand back, a least twenty paces away,” he tapped his ear, “I’ll be able to hear you. You’ve got your gun?” It was her turn to tap the holster strapped to her hip, another surprise from him this morning. “And the extra clips?” She tapped her other hip. “Right then,” he nodded, “right. Let’s get started then.”

“Are you ready?”

“No, but what choice do we have? Are you?”

“Yes.” She didn’t have the _fucking book_ with her. She’d already memorized the words, the keys to Bucky’s soul. They were going to do this, it was time. “It’s going to be all right, Bucky, I promise you.” She watched him stride into the middle of the room, straightening his shoulders before he faced her.

“Please be careful, Becca-Bee. Don’t do anything stupid,” was his final warning.

“I won’t,” she shook her head. “And remember, I love you.”

“I know. I love you too.”

She nodded one final time, lifted her chin, and said the first word.

***

It was horrible to watch. The _fucking book_ told her what to expect, and Bucky had relayed what very little he remembered of the experience. But still, to see it, to bear witness to the transformation, the erasure of all that made Bucky who he was, was absolutely horrifying.

And even worse to know she was the one doing it to him.

With the first word, his spine straightened, an involuntary jerk.

With the second, his lips started to trembling.

With the third, his hands starting to shake.

With the fourth, his head lowered, chin dropped to his chest.

By the fifth, he was perfectly still.

By the time she said the sixth, even though he fought it, even though she saw him struggling, he was completely gone.

When she said the last word, the tenth fucking word, his head snapped up, his face blank, except for the knives in his eyes, and said in a cold, flat voice, “готов соблюдать.”

She did not speak any Russian, but she didn’t need to; she knew what he was saying, asking of her. Yet still, she could not help her startled “What?”

“готов соблюдать,” he repeated in that same voice, no easier to hear the second time than it was the first.

“Oh god, oh god,” she couldn’t stop herself from blurting. She hadn’t doubted, but there was a big difference between not doubting and actually witnessing the results of what had been done to Bucky. And that’s what she needed to remind herself, to cling to; that in spite of what she was seeing, Bucky was still in there, somewhere. She just had to reach for him, illuminate the trail so he could find his way back to her, like he had before.

“Ready to comply,” the Soldier said this time in English, nearly startling a laugh out of her. Well, Bucky said he’d been trained to adapt, and the Soldier had obviously figured out she did not understand Russian.

“OK, OK,” she nodded. It was time to pull herself back together; this was about helping Bucky, not having hysterics. They’d discussed this, planned for it, debating the various options. It was time for her to get to work.

“Hello,” she said quietly, taking one step forward, then another. If Bucky had been in control, he would be furious with her for the chances she was risking. But the Soldier hadn’t moved, hadn’t taken a single step, hadn’t even blinked, as far as she could tell. Another step, and then another, his eyes tracking her, until she was less than two feet away.

“Hello,” she said again.

“Ready to comply,” he responded.

“Do you know who I am?”

“The Handler,” the Soldier said, in that voice that would haunt her nightmares for the rest of her life.

“No, I’m not,” she shook her head, but kept her eyes locked on his. “I’m Rebecca Barnes-Proctor, your sister. And you are not the Soldier, you are James Buchanan Barnes, Bucky, my big brother.” He blinked at her, but that was all.

“New identity confirmed. What is the mission?” he asked.

“There is no mission. And you are not the Soldier. You’re Bucky. You got away, you’re free now, you’ve been free for more than a year, and you need to remember that. I know you’re in there Bucky, somewhere, and you’re trying to fight your way out. I’m here, and I’m waiting for you. Please Bucky, please fight it. I know you’re stronger than this. You can do it, you did it before, I know you can do it again. Don’t give up. I’m here, and I’m waiting for you. Now fight it!”

Nothing.

For the next hour nothing she did, said or tried garnered any response other than him staring at her. She encouraged, she pleaded, she begged, but nothing had any effect, the Soldier just standing there at attention, his eyes following her every move.

“What is the mission?” he asked, only the seventh thing he’d said since they started this over fifty minutes ago, and she stopped her pacing and stared at him.

“The mission,” she began, deciding on a new tactic, “is to bring my brother back. Can you do that? Can you override the programming and let my brother come back?”

There was no change, and she couldn’t help her disappointment. It had been worth a shot, but proved ineffective. She sighed and glanced at her watch; they were nearing an hour, the amount of time they’d agreed upon if there were no results. This next part was going to be even worse than the previous sixty minutes had been.

“I’m sorry,” she said to the Soldier, and she was. “I know you’re trying, and you’ve been doing so well. And I’m not mad at you, I’m not. But I made a promise to Bucky, and I have to keep it. He’s been lied to enough already, and I won’t do that to him again. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

Then she closed her eyes, lowered her head, and said, _“Sputnik.”_

***

“I take it, it didn’t work?” Bucky croaked, an hour and a half later, his head resting in her lap.

“No, it didn’t,” she ran her fingers through his damp hair. “And hi. There you are. Welcome back.”

“Did I hurt you?” was his next question, squinting at her. It was so typically Bucky, to ask about her when he was the one sprawled on the ground.

“No, you didn’t. I was perfectly fine,” she assured him. “But how about you? How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” he groaned, curling away from her and onto his side to cough up a mouthful of bile.

“Yeah well, you’ve had a rough night.” She pulled a bottle of Gatorade from her bag, twisted the cap off, and kept it in her hands until he was ready for it.

“No change then?” he asked, after he managed to sit up and take a few sips.

“No change,” she shook her head. “But we expected that. I have to admit, it was a bit shocking at first.” _Shocking._ That was such a pale descriptor of what she’d witnessed, but no other word could possibly even begin to suit. “But at least I’ll know what to expect next time.”

“Next time?” His voice was so thin, but it was still better than the flatness of the Soldier’s.

“Exposure therapy,” she reminded him. “That means we do it again and again and again, and then again, until you’re finally desensitized enough and have a breakthrough.”

***

Every night for the next two weeks, they drove back to that warehouse, and repeated the process in the hopes that _this_ time there would be a breakthrough.

There wasn’t, but they didn’t stop.

It was taking its toll on Bucky, that much was obvious. Whatever happened in his brain, whatever cascade those words initiated, it was exhausting him. The dark circles were back under his eyes, and he grew paler and paler with each passing day. His behavior started to regress as well, and he resumed responding to her with _yes_ or _no_ on his good days, and nodding or shaking his head on his bad ones.

She reintroduced the shakes with every meal to make sure his body had enough energy to combat whatever it was going through, and took to sitting him on the couch and dropping a block of wood in his lap, along with his whittling knife, on his silent days. The Soldier had never been allowed any form of artistic expression, and this was one of Bucky’s oldest hobbies. She hoped the sensory input, if nothing else, would help him retain that connection to himself.

One advantage that came from all of it was Bucky agreeing, after fourteen days of the Soldier not once attempting to hurt or threaten her with any violence, to continue the sessions at home, as long as all the windows were closed and blinds drawn. It was a relief, not as time consuming, and she felt much less guilty using the drop code on Bucky when it was the couch he fell onto, instead of the floor.

He was obviously growing frustrated with the process, doubting its efficacy, but if anything, she was more motivated than before. Bucky knew, but had never seen, what those words actually did to him, but she had, and it infuriated her. She took that rage, that fury, clenched it in her heart, and forged a blade of the strongest steel, swearing to hack through every single vine and thorn surrounding the tower of Bucky’s prison. It was going to work, she would make it, they just had to adjust their approach.

She asked more and more questions –

“Is any part of you aware of what’s going on after I’ve said those words?”

“No.”

\- and –

“Do you remember anything of what’s happened once you wake up?”

“No.”

\- took notes, and modified their strategy.

“What if, instead of me saying the words to you, we play them on a loop at night while you’re sleeping? You won’t be awake, but some part of your brain will be aware enough to hear them, on a subconscious level if nothing else.”

“Yeah, sure, why not?” Bucky barely had enough energy to shrug.

It was Bucky who went to bed the night they decided to try that, but the Soldier who emerged from his room in the morning, looking like he’d been hit by a truck. But his first words were still, “Ready to comply,” as soon as he saw her.

“Aw, shit,” she sighed, her heart sinking. “I really thought that was going to work. Right then, come on Soldier, go lay back down, it’s all right, I promise. I’m not going to hurt you… _Sputnik._ ”

***

They kept at it. For the next two months, day after day, they repeated the process, hoping for any signs of change. Bucky grew increasingly frustrated, but she refused to give up hope. While Bucky napped, recovering from that day’s attempt, she went back to her research, emailing Dr. Zendale, and looking into dissociative personality disorder, traumatic brain injury, and stress responses at her recommendation. There was something there, she knew it, she just had to find it.

Then she decided to on a new approach and stumbled upon the very first clue they were getting somewhere.

***

“What happened if I didn’t use the drop code?” she asked one morning while they were eating breakfast.

“Then I would stay the Soldier,” Bucky muttered around a mouthful of bacon. At least he could still take comfort in that. “You know that.”

“But you didn’t,” she countered. “At least not the last time, well no, not the last _last_ time, but when you were guarding that fucker Karpov. You clawed your way back out of it, eventually. How long did that take?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged. “Maybe a year, year and a half, I think? It’s still blurry.”

“So what if we tried that instead?” She lifted her hand before he could protest. “We already know the Soldier won’t hurt me, recognizes me as the Handler, as much as I hate to say it. And your situation’s different now. You’re not being pumped full of those drugs anymore, you’re better fed and stronger. You’re also surrounded by things familiar to you, a safe place. Maybe we’re not giving you enough time to fight the programming off. You did it once, in worse circumstances. I don’t see why you wouldn’t be able to do it again.”

“I dunno, Becca-Bee.” He dropped his head to the table. “It takes a lot out of me every time we do this. I’m tired.”

“I know you are.” She rested a hand on his shoulder. “You’re being so brave, and trying so hard. But what else do we have to lose at this point?”

“Nothing.”

“So let’s give this a try, and see what happens.”

***

“Do you know who I am?”

“You are Rebecca Barnes-Proctor,” the Soldier answered. “The Handler.”

That was already interesting. While Bucky claimed he did not remember anything that happened while under the control of the words, it appeared the Soldier was capable of retaining information between missions, which made a horrible sort of sense. They wanted a weapon, but more than likely did not want to waste the time it would take to retrain him prior to every mission, so certain skills and abilities remained. Those fuckers really had refined their process. She wanted to piss on their faces.

“What is the mission?” the Soldier asked.

“Right now? Lunch, and then probably laundry. Now come along, I’m thinking BLTs.”

Over the following twelve days, she lived with the Soldier, instead of Bucky, giving him no orders aside from asking him to put the dishes away, which he did with an alarming alacrity, while quietly encouraging Bucky to fight the programming and find his way back.

If he was confused by her actions, the Soldier gave no indication. He simply followed her wherever she went, at a distance of no more than five feet away, or standing in the corner while she cooked or researched on her computer, until she told him to sit, anywhere he liked, with a wave of her hand.

At night, he slept when she asked him to, in Bucky’s room, “In the bed, not on the floor. You’re a human being, a person, not a weapon, or a machine.” When she woke up, he would be standing in the corner of her room, which she had to admit was disquieting at first, but he never hurt her, or made any threatening moves.

If anything, as the days passed, he appeared to grow even more protective of her, attempting to anticipate her needs.

“Thank you,” she said, when he handed her a platter from one of the high shelves before she could reach for it. He did not respond, merely stepped back and out of her way, watching her as he always did while she prepared their dinner. He had no food preferences she could determine, but he did seem perplexed by the fact she was actually feeding him solid food, instead of some premade slurry, and that the servings were always generous.

“Bucky loves my meatloaf. He always goes for seconds, and even thirds, whenever I make it,” she told him one night. “Looks like you enjoy it too.” She glanced at his empty plate. “Do you think you could let him come back now? I miss him, and would really like to see him again.”

No change, but he did do all the dishes without being asked.

“I have to go out, pick up some groceries,” she said to the Soldier a few days later. He immediately rose to his feet. “I know Bucky used to follow me whenever I went out, even though I never saw him doing it. No one can know you’re here, it’s not safe yet. But do you think you can do that without being seen?” The Soldier nodded. “OK then. Let me go get my coat. Is there anything you want me to pick up?” He didn’t answer, and was waiting for her by the door when she returned to the house. But she knew he’d been there, shadowing her, making sure she was safe. She followed him as he took the grocery bags from her hands, carrying them into the kitchen, something about his behavior snagging in her mind, and began to think that maybe, just maybe, they were looking at this the wrong way.

She studied him more closely after that, scrutinizing every move he made, observing his behavior. The Soldier wasn’t her brother, but…

He wasn’t not him either.

For all that he was silent and moved with a deadly intent, there was a similarity in his movements, carriage and the way he assessed a room, no matter how many times he’d been there before. He knew how to anticipate her movements and predict her needs, and was not so much deferential, but respectful, the way Bucky was.

The Soldier wasn’t a thing, something created by HYDRA, separate from Bucky, but an aspect of him, his essence, once all his choice and self-actualization was stripped away.

And, the thought occurred to her, maybe the Soldier too was just doing his best to try and survive, that aspect of Bucky fighting for its right to exist.

They really had been going about this the wrong way.

“Look at me,” she said at the end of the twelfth day, when she could no longer deny the conclusions she had come to. The Soldier immediately rose from the couch and stood in front of her, hands clasped behind his back.

“Who am I?” she asked.

“Rebecca Barnes-Proctor, the Handler,” he answered.

“And who are you?”

“The Soldier.”

“Yes, you are,” she told him. “And I need you to listen to and believe me. Will you do that?”

“You are the Handler. The Soldier obeys the Handler.”

“I am not the Handler, I’m your sister,” she said. “And I love you. And you need to understand that we are not trying to destroy you. We’re trying to help you, make you whole. You’ve been alone for a long time, and fighting so very hard, but you’re safe here. No one’s going to hurt you anymore. I just want to help you, _we_ just want to help you. Do you understand that?”

He didn’t answer but there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, not once over the past twelve days.

“You must be so, so tired big brother,” she reached out, and just like she did with Bucky, because he _was_ Bucky, cupped his cheek in her hand. “Do you want me to let you rest?”

He stared at her with his cold blue eyes, _Bucky’s eyes_ , razor sharp and endless, but still beautiful, because they were her brother’s, searching her own, and nodded, just once.

“All right,” she smiled. “It’s going to be OK, I promise you. I’ll see you soon.”

Then she lowered her hand, stepped back, and whispered, “ _Sputnik._ ”

***

While Bucky slept off the past two weeks on her couch, Becca kept half an eye on him while she checked her email. There was a new one from Dr. Zendale, and with her latest realization, it gave her the last bit of information she needed to set Bucky free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you live in the US, I hope you had a very Happy Thanksgiving. If you live somewhere else in the world, I hope you had a great day just because you deserve it. 
> 
> **hugs** to you all and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	13. 2001 - Rebecca  (Cont'd...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, because some of you nudged me ever so gently, (while also threatening to take back my pie - you know who you are, and I hope you know how much I adore you 🤣), reminding me it was a holiday weekend and how unfair it was to leave the last chapter where I did, you get an EXTRA extra chapter this week. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it. The next chapter will be posted on Tuesday.

“We’ve been going about this all wrong.”

From his huddle at her kitchen table, Bucky grunted.

“I’m serious Bucky,” she piled more bacon on to his plate. “I think I’ve finally figured it out.”

“Becca, we’ve been trying everything you’ve suggested for the past two months, and nothing’s worked. We’re no closer than we were when we started.”

“That’s because I didn’t have all the information I needed.”

“But you do now?” He didn’t sound convinced.

“I do now,” she nodded, nudging his plate. “Eat your bacon.” She waited for him to pick up a piece and bring it to his mouth before she began.

“The problem is two-fold, as far as I can see,” she declared, primly folding her hands on the table.

“Uh-huh,” he grunted.

“We’ve been looking at this as if the Soldier is something separate from you, something you’ve got to overcome, and he’s not.”

“What?”

“You’ve got to stop fighting him and start trying to embrace him,” she said.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” If he had the energy, he would have been shouting at her. But he didn’t, all he could manage was a furious snarl.

“I’m not,” she shook her head. “I spent nearly two weeks with him, Bucky, watching him. He’s not something separate, he’s a part of you, and you need to accept that.”

“Yeah well, that part of me assassinated JFK, so I don’t think embracing him is such a good idea!”

“Wait… _what?_ ” she blinked.

“You heard me,” he growled.

“But I…I voted for him.”

“And the Soldier shot him in the head,” he snapped. “So you go on, you sit there and tell me how I should embrace it, when its only purpose is to kill.”

“But that’s just it Bucky,” she said, forcing herself back on track. “The Soldier isn’t an _it_ , it’s you, or at least a part of you, but the part of you that reacts when all your choices are taken away.”

“Like that makes a difference,” he shook his head.

“It does, it makes a tremendous difference,” she insisted. “Everything about the Soldier, all those skills they put to use, they were already there. Those bastards just sharpened them, and took away your ability to decide how they should be used.”

“That doesn’t make it any better.”

“It _does,_ ” she pressed. “You were already a sniper during the war, and a damned good one, from everything I’ve heard. And you used to box when you were younger, and were good at that too. The only difference is, and this is a big difference, a huge one, you chose the when and why of it. You never once hurt anyone, unless you had to, or were defending someone you loved. They wanted that, but they didn’t want to deal with your conscience. Thought it was just something in their way, when it was always the best part of you. It’s the programming you need to be fighting, not _him._

“And the Soldier, I spent two weeks with him, like I said, and I watched him all that time. There are bits of him in you, his strength and his protectiveness. And just like you, he wants to survive, to be free. That’s why he’s fighting so hard. But the two of you, you’re only fighting yourselves,” she brought her fingers together to demonstrate what she meant, “and that’s why we’re not getting anywhere, because neither part of you can exist without the other.”

“No, Becca, that’s not –“

“Do you think you’re the only one with a dark side?” she cut him off. “With parts of yourself you don’t like? I was jealous and resentful of the time Bobbi used to spend at work. We had a good marriage, a great one, but I was still resentful and we fought about it all the time. Da used to drink because he couldn’t deal with what happened to him in the war, and Ma would scream and throw things when she was angry. Good people, doing their best, but they weren’t perfect, far from it. We all have sides of ourselves we’re not proud of, and have to come to terms with, but denying they’re there doesn’t help us either.” She lowered her hands to the table and leaned forward, not giving Bucky the space to look away.

“You have to accept there are parts of you that _yes_ , are very good at killing, but by doing that, you get to make the choice about if and how you do that. You’re a fighter Bucky, you always were, it’s the only reason you’ve been able to make it this far. But if you embrace that part of yourself, instead of trying to deny it, then you’ll have the Soldier on your side, because he is you, and then nothing, _absolutely nothing_ , will be able to stop you, or get in your way.”

_Tick-tick-tick_ , went her clock, the only sound in the room. _Tick-tick-tick_ , just like her heart, just like his.

“You really believe that?” he eventually asked, and she could see how difficult it was for him.

“I do,” she leaned back in her chair.

“And the second part?”

“The second part?” she repeated.

“You said the issue was two-fold. What’s the second part?” He was obviously deflecting. She decided to let it lie, for now.

“The second part is harder,” she sighed. “I was discussing triggers with Dr. Zendale, and in her last email she said that in the most extreme situations, the body initiates a fight or flight response that can’t be helped. She said she’s had some success in those cases with hypnosis or even mild sedatives, inducing a state of calm that allows her patients to feel safe enough to identify the cause.

“But since your brain immediately begins to shut down as soon as I say the first word, I don’t know how we can do that. Given your metabolism, I don’t think a Sominex is going to work.”

“Huh,” he said.

“It’s a lead, the best one I’ve got so far, but…I don’t know. There’s gotta be something we can do.” She picked up her napkin, twisting in her fingers. This was the most frustrating aspect of it all; they were so close, she knew it, and yet still so far away.

“Let me think on it, see if there’s anything I can come up with that you haven’t.”

“Be my guest,” she said. “But finish your bacon first. You look like shit.”

***

It was her turn to balk when Bucky proposed a solution a few days later.

“ _Are you out of your mind?_ ”

“Why not?”

“No, no, absolutely not,” she shook her head.

“You said it yourself, a sedative strong enough to suppress my body’s reaction to the triggers.”

“But carfentanyl? That’s an animal tranquilizer,” she glanced at the computer monitor. “Used on _elephants!_ ”

“So?” he shrugged.

“So? _So?_ ” She threw her hands in the air. “Less than a milligram is toxic to a human being!”

“I’m not a human being, Becca-Bee, you know that.” She glared at him. “Or at least not a normal one. I shouldn’t have survived those first few weeks, but somehow I did. My body always heals itself, they made sure of it.”

“But - but…”

There was suddenly a knife in his left hand, that hadn’t been there a second ago, and between one word and the next, he used it to slice a deep gash into his right palm.

“Jesus Christ! What the hell is wrong with you?” She raced into the kitchen to grab a dishtowel, pressing it into his hand as soon as she got back.

“Calm down Becca, and look,” he told her.

“I am calm. You’re the crazy one, I swear to god,” she shook her head. “That’s going to need stitches.”

“Rebecca,” he curled his metal fingers around her wrist, pulling her hand away. “ _Look._ ” He extended his fingers, showing her his palm. It was a red and bloody mess…that should have been bloodier, because the bleeding had already stopped.

“Wha – what?” she gasped.

“You see,” he said. “It’s already starting to heal.”

“But that’s,” she wiped the towel over his skin, the cut looking thinner than it had a second ago. “That’s not possible.”

“And yet here we are,” he smiled at her. “It’ll be completely healed by tomorrow morning, just a scar at most. My body, or their serum, is already doing its job. It can handle the carfentanyl. There was probably something very similar to it in the vials in my arm, or even stronger. It won’t be a problem.”

“It’s a moot point anyway,” she muttered, her eyes still on his hand. She swore she could see his flesh knitting itself back together. “It’s not like we can get our hands on any of it.” His silence was disturbing.

And also very smug.

“No.” She looked up to see him grinning at her.

“Give me a day.”

“No,” she shook her head.

“Two at the most.”

“I hate this idea,” she hissed.

“You got any better ones, you let me know. Until then, this is what we got.”

***

By that evening, the cut on his hand had completely sealed shut. The following morning, it was just a thin scar when she checked, that was gone, like it had never been, by lunchtime.

Three days later, they were in possession of three vials of carfentanyl, and a case of one-hundred syringes. The windows were closed, the curtains drawn, the lights dimmed, and Bucky was stretched out beneath a pile of blankets on Bobbi’s old recliner, his breaths even and deep, probably high as a kite. But, after an injection of only fifty micrograms of the carfentanyl, all she would allow, as relaxed as he’d ever be.

“Where are you?” she asked, keeping her voice soft and low, as soothing as she could make it.

“Home,” he murmured dreamily.

“Are you alone?”

“No. You’re with me,” he continued in that same, hazy voice.

“And who am I?”

“You’re Becca-Bee, my sister,” he smiled the smile of the truly blitzed. At least he was responsive.

“You know I love you, right?”

“I do, I do,” he hummed. “And I love you too.”

“Is the Soldier with you?” This part was essential; if they were to succeed the two of them had to be working together, fighting as the one they really were.

His brow furrowed, growing tense, but it didn’t look like he was fighting it, more like he was searching for something, the way he looked when he reached for a memory.

“He is,” Bucky eventually said, softer than before. “And he’s willing to help. He wants to.”

“Good,” she affirmed. And it was. It was. “You’re safe here, you both are, you know that, right?”

“Safe,” he nodded, “yes.”

“And you’re not alone, and you won’t be,” she told him. “I’m here with you, and I won’t abandon you, either one of you, I promise.”

“’Cos you’re my Becca-Bee.”

“I am. And I always will be. Now, take a deep breath in, nice and slow…Good, just like that. And another…Good…and another…Good. I’m going to say a word, but you need to remember that you’re safe. It’s just a word, and it can’t hurt you, but you need to try very hard to tell me what it means.”

“OK…” For the first time there was something childlike in his voice, something lost and afraid.

“I’ll be here, and I’ll catch you, I promise.”

“OK.”

“Now,” she paused, took a deep breath and said, “ _Longing._ ”

At first, nothing happened. Bucky lay there, perfectly still, his eyes closed, his breathing deep.

And then, between one heartbeat and the next, his eyelids flew open, and he cried out, “Oh god, oh god, no, no, no… _Steve!_ ” before his back arched, and blood exploded from his nose, eyes and ears.

***

“Did it…did it work?” The cracked ice of his voice was music to her ears. After the blood, there’d been the convulsions, then three minutes where she was positive his heart stopped beating, until he gasped, just once, followed by the longest ninety minutes of her life.

“Oh thank god Bucky, thank god,” she sobbed into his chest. “I thought I’d killed you. I’m so sorry Bucky, I’m so so sorry.”

“Wha happened?” he slurred.

“You started bleeding, and then you started shaking, and you wouldn’t wake up, no matter what I did,”

“Isss OK.” He thumped her back heavily with his hand.

“Are you all right? Is there anything I can get you?” she asked, lifting her head. There was still blood on his face, streaks of it in his hair. She tried to wipe away as much of it as she could, but there’d been so much of it.

“Bucket,” he groaned. At least they’d come prepared for this, and she lifted the bin in barely enough time for him to heave up a mouthful of food, fluids and even more blood into it.

That was all he was capable of doing for the next half hour, curled up on his side, his hands clenching his head. She sat with him, cleaning the sick from his face, and running her fingers through his hair, keeping her promise, and not leaving his side.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, when his breathing finally calmed, and his skin felt less clammy.

“Migraine,” he managed after a dry swallow.

“I’m not surprised,” she had to admit. “That did not look like it was easy.”

“Wasn’t.”

“Do you think it worked?”

“Maybe,” he said after another swallow. “Feels different. Try it.”

“Bucky, I don’t think –“

“Try it,” he insisted. “Need to know.

“If you’re sure…”

“Am.”

“OK.” It was her turn to take a deep breath, which she held for a second before with an exhale she said, “Longing.”

Nothing happened, no shiver, no straightening of his spine, nothing.

“Bucky?”

“I think,” he opened his eyes to stare at her, looking hopeful for the first time. “I think it worked.”

And then he smiled.

***

It was Bucky who pushed them forward after that. Now they had proof the triggers could be removed, he was demanding, insisting they get rid of the rest as soon as possible. He wanted to attack the second word the very next night, and she ended up being the one arguing for patience. He hadn’t seen the price that needed to be paid to cut them out of his head, and she wanted to make sure he had enough time to recover not only from the process but the carfentanyl as well.

They agreed upon four days between sessions. During that time, Bucky would eat and sleep as much as possible, rebuilding his strength and replenishing his reserves. It was hard on the both of them, but now that they’d achieved this success, they both knew it needed to be done if Bucky was ever going to truly be free from HYDRA’s grasp.

There were nine remaining words in the sequence, as well as the drop code. They began each session with a repeat of the previous one’s word, to make sure it hadn’t regenerated its power, and then moved on to the next.

The following four sessions were just as brutal as the first, Bucky’s brain reacting violently to the bombs they were deliberately detonating. There was blood and puke, and one time he actually pissed himself, which embarrassed him. Since it eliminated the trigger, _furnace,_ she told him not to worry about it, and counted that session a success.

By the sixth word, _benign,_ something started to change. Either Bucky’s body was adapting, learning how to heal itself, or, and she suspected this was the case, the Soldier and him were no longer separate, not fighting each other for dominance, fusing and working to free themselves, _himself,_ instead.

It was still rough, but the convulsions stopped, as did the vomiting afterwards, if not the nosebleeds. But once Bucky made the connection between the word and what it symbolized, he no longer lost consciousness, even if hours passed before he was able to stand.

It took five weeks to override the last word in the chain, leaving just the drop code. By the time they reached it, Bucky didn’t need the carfentanyl anymore.

When she whispered Sputnik for the last time in her life, he gasped, shuddered, opened his eyes, a single drop of blood dripping from his nose, and simply said, “ _Death_ ,” everyone’s ultimate fear.

And with that final word, he was free.

***

“Morning, Becca-Bee,” Bucky said to her when she walked into the kitchen on a bright and hot morning at the end of June. He was staring at the coffee maker; he seemed to believe if he stared at it hard enough, it would work faster. “Sleep well?”

“Longing,” she chirped at him, instead of answering. He grunted at her. “Rusted.” He looked over his shoulder and frowned. “Seventeen.” His frown turned into a scowl. “Daybreak.” He rolled his eyes. “Furnace. Nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car.”

“You really think you’re funny, don’t you?” he groused at her.

“Sputnik,” she sing-songed.

“Just for that, see if I give you any coffee.”

“Told you we could do it.” She stepped up to him and kissed his cheek.

“You did.” He reached out, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her in for a hug, pressing the softest of kisses to the top of her head. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, big brother,” she murmured into his chest, returning his embrace. “Anytime.”

***

They burned the _fucking book_.

On a warm and clear July night, they dragged Bobbi’s old grill out from the gardening shed, where it all began, and ripped the pages out, one by one, tossing them onto the burning coals, where they quickly caught fire, the sparks rising into the air to dance with the fireflies.

Just as bright, just as beautiful, and just as free as Bucky now was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire work, but especially this chapter, would not be what it was if not for my amazing beta Merry. They reviewed the section regarding the usage of carfentanyl, making suggestions and notes on the dosages. It led to a fascinating discussion about drugs and which would be effective on a super-solider, the type of rabbit hole you can only dive into if you know someone who loves a particular fandom as much as you do. Merry always makes my work better, but I also have so much fun working with them, and I hope you know exactly how much I adore you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. 
> 
> The next chapter starts a new year and phase in Bucky and Becca's lives and I hope you enjoy where it goes. 
> 
> And as always, comments and kudos are ALWAYS appreciated.


	14. 2002-2005 - Rebecca

**Rebecca**

**2002**

If asked, Becca would say she was a good person. Not perfect, not by any means, but she always tried to do her best, by her friends, her community, her husband. She didn’t take what she’d done for Bucky into consideration; Bucky was _family_ , and that was simply what one did for family, loved, supported and helped them during times of need. It wasn’t what family did, it was what family was, and she could do no less.

Besides, there was still work to be done. They may have freed Bucky from the trigger words, released him from the hold of those HYDRA bastards, but that did not mean he was healed. Over half a century of torture and abuse didn’t simply go away because one wanted it to. Fifty years of Bucky’s life had been stolen from him, and he needed to process and mourn that. He also had to adapt to this new world, reintegrate himself, accept and adjust to all the cultural changes since the forties, and that would take time.

But they had it, plenty of it now, and that’s what Becca turned her attention to next, Bucky’s mental recovery.

There was more yoga together in the mornings, more journals, and more art therapy. Bucky refused to talk about most of it, but he kept up the woodworking, and did hesitantly ask for new journals every few weeks.

That was something else she noticed. While no longer HYDRA’s slave, Bucky seldom, if ever contradicted her, or asked for something for himself. He assured her he no longer viewed her as his handler, but she wasn’t quite so sure. She couldn’t determine if it was a result of his conditioning, an aspect of the Soldier’s personality now they’d fused themselves, some combination of the two, or something else entirely. So she worked on ways to foster his independence and autonomy, encouraging him to make choices.

“Five things,” she said, glancing at their old friend, _the list_ , on the kitchen table. He was still hesitant to leave the house, to be seen in public, and as a result, she was the one doing the shopping. “Every week, I want you to add at least five things you want me to buy to the list. Not five things we’re running low on, or you think we need, but five new things you want to try, just because.”

“But why?” He was sincerely confused by her request.

“Because you can.”

“But I don’t need anything, and you always come back with more than enough for the both of us,” was his argument.

“It’s not about need, Bucky,” she shook her head. “It’s about want. The war is over and we aren’t living in the Depression anymore, so there aren’t any food rations. I have an excellent pension, and plenty of savings, so money’s not an issue. It’s about trying new things, simply because you want to, because you can.”

“I don’t see why that’s relevant,” he persisted. She held in her sigh; she needed to encourage him, not make him feel bad about the issues he was struggling with.

“Five things,” she insisted. “I don’t care what they are. Just pick five things you want me to bring home. A new flavor of ice cream, a different brand of coffee, a salad dressing you’ve seen a commercial for and think sounds tasty. I don’t care why. Just pick something, anything, and add it to the list.”

“Becca,” he shook his head, actually taking a step back.

“Five things, Bucky.” She refused to yield on this. “If you don’t, I won’t buy any bacon on my next run either.”

“ _You wouldn’t._ ” That certainly caught his attention.

“Just try me,” she crossed her arms. “Five things. Every week. I mean it.” She was a good person, she knew that about herself. That didn’t mean she couldn’t play dirty if she had to. “And no, bacon doesn’t count.”

But it worked. After that conversation, every week there were five new items on the list, written in Bucky’s blocky handwriting. Some of his requests made her smile, some laugh out loud, and others confused her, but she never criticized, and always purchased the items without complaint.

“Lunchables, huh?” she asked, holding the packet of crackers, pre-sliced deli meats and processed cheese out to him.

“Looked interesting,” he confessed, staring down at the small tray in his hands. “Also, a lot bigger on TV.” He sounded disappointed.

“Let me know how they are,” she laughed, placing the bacon in the freezer. “And if I should pick up more.”

They never did show up on the list again, but other things did, and soon Cheetos, earl grey tea, ranch dressing, and tortellini, of all things, became standard items in her pantry.

Books were next.

“You want me to pick out five new books to read? Every week?”

“Yep,” she nodded.

“But…” He glanced at the bookshelves in her living room, already filled to the brim with books.

“There’s no limit on how many books you can have. And besides, don’t try to tell me you haven’t read through all those already.” She knew he had. She usually found him with one in his lap whenever she returned from a class. She also knew, in spite of the worst of it being over, at least in terms of his physical recovery and the trigger words no longer having an effect on him, he now often had trouble sleeping through the night. Nightmares, most likely, that he refused to discuss with her. On those nights, after she shuffled her way to the bathroom, he would be sitting on the couch, his features drawn, reading quietly in the dark.

He had always been an avid reader, even in their youth, especially in their youth, and she thought it nothing but a good thing to reconnect to that aspect of himself. Besides, she had spent her career teaching literature, and one of her core beliefs was that you could never read enough. Collecting books was something people did, and since he’d had so little, even before those monsters captured him, always sacrificing so those he loved could have more, she wanted to give him this, a reminder he was human, and not a mindless machine.

“You’ve always loved to read Bucky, there’s no shame in that,” she went on. “And as small as Landing is, it’s got a pretty good library. Plus, there is this thing called Amazon now, you know.”

“I know,” he mumbled, but there was something in his voice, his eyes, his countenance, clearly showing he did not find the idea as off putting as he was pretending.

“Five books,” she insisted. “Whatever you want. And when you finish those, five more.”

When the boxes from Amazon started to arrive, they were filled with random titles; some fiction, some history, and a lot of biographies. He showed her the covers at first, although she assured him he didn’t have to. She never mocked his selections, only asking if she could read a few of them once he was done, and occasionally making a suggestion when a topic or particular author captured his interest. Eventually his selections grew less random and more focused, as Bucky discovered series and writers he enjoyed. It got to the point where there were so many paperbacks and hardcovers stacked throughout the house, on the coffee and kitchen tables, the magazine rack in the bathroom, they needed more bookshelves, which Bucky ended up building himself. They were well-made and solid, and soon filled with graphic novels, books by Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman, Ursula le Guinn, Peter S. Beagle, along with, to her absolute surprise and delight, romances, which they both devoured as quickly as possible.

“What is it with you and five things?” he asked, staring down at the catalogues she dropped in front of him in her latest attempt to encourage his sense of self.

“What’s wrong with the number five?” she decided to play oblivious. “It’s a perfectly good number. Besides, do you have a problem with clothes?”

“No, but,” he paused to swallow. “It’s already too much, Becca-Bee.”

She decided she needed to be soft instead of stubborn. “When you came here, you had nothing but the clothes you were wearing, and those were already rags.” Disgusting, filthy, flea and who-knew-what-else infested rags, but she wasn’t going to mention that.

“I’m sorry.” He was starting to curl in on himself, withdraw and that was not her intent.

“You don’t need to apologize, you never need to apologize for that,” she reached out to gently rest her hand on the back of his wrist. “I’m glad you had even that much,” which was a bit of a stretch, but she was. “And I was more than happy to buy you more.”

“And they are all perfectly serviceable.” He glanced down at the sweatshirt and baggy jeans he was wearing.

“They are, and I hope you like everything I’ve picked out.”

“I do,” he nodded, “and I’m grateful.”

“Then I’m glad,” she smiled at him. “But just like food and books, you don’t just have to use something because it’s what I’ve picked out for you. You have choices now, more than before. And even though we never had much, you were always such a sharp dresser.” With his neatly pressed suits and shoes polished to a high shine, her brother used to cut such a dashing figure wherever he went. “Times have changed, and while I’ve been trying to pick out things I think you’d like, I don’t know your style.

“It’s OK if you don’t know yours yet,” she was quick to remind him. “And it’s fine if it’s changed. Mine certainly has.” These days she was a fan of drawstring linen capri pants, long flowing cotton tunics, and sleeveless summer dresses in bright colors when the temperatures were warm enough. “But that’s what this is about, finding that out for yourself.” She squeezed his wrist, and then let go to nudge the catalogues from J. Crew, LL Bean and Spiegel closer to him.

“Just pick five things, every couple of months, to try them out. If they don’t fit or you end up not liking them, we can send them back. But just see what’s out there and if anything catches your eye.” She grinned at him. “You’ve certainly got the body for it.”

“Becca-Bee!”

“And remember, I have an excellent pension and plenty of savings –“

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“So get to shopping Bucky, it’ll be good for you.”

That task was harder for him than the food lists and book orders. But eventually boxes of clothes did start to arrive. She had no idea what to expect, and told herself not to be disappointed in anything he decided upon. This was about Bucky and his right to make choices, not her personal tastes.

He didn’t order anything too fancy, or attention grabbing, like he would have in their youth. There were no bright colors or fashion forward designs; most of what he picked was similar to the items she’d already purchased for him, simple and utilitarian. But she couldn’t help but notice they were all made of the softest materials possible, gentle on the skin, and warm enough to keep even the coldest temperatures at bay, and how he smiled to himself whenever he put them on.

So there was definitely progress, slow going but there. There were still setbacks, sleepless nights, and days when Bucky regressed to a non-verbal state, and she made sure to remind them both that two steps forward and one step back was a natural part of the recovery process. But he was getting better, and she cherished each and every sign. The day he looked down at his dinnerplate and grumbled in a disgusted tone, “Oh god, broccoli? Really?” she ended up dropping her own plate, and collapsing in her chair, tears in her eyes.

“What? What is it?” he immediately asked, horror dawning on his face as the tears started to stream down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it Becca-Bee, I’ll eat the broccoli.”

“Don’t you dare,” she sniffed at him, reaching for a napkin to wipe her cheeks.

“But I don’t understand. Why are you crying? I didn’t mean to upset you.” He knelt in front of her, assessing but not daring to reach out, even though it was obvious he wanted to.

“I’m not upset Bucky. I’m _happy_ ,” she said.

“Why?” he asked as she blew her nose.

“Because it’s been almost two years since you’ve been here, and this is the first time you’ve actually admitted you didn’t like something. Expressed an opinion of your own. I’ve missed it, that’s all.”

He blinked at her, then blinked at her again, then again.

“Yeah well,” he finally said with a small shrug. “It’s broccoli, it’s _gross._ ”

“It’s good for you,” she couldn’t help but chide him.

“That may be, but it’s still gross,” he frowned.

“True,” she giggled, dabbing away the last of her tears. “I’ll keep it off the menu from now on.”

“Thank you.”

“But I’m not replacing it with bacon. You can’t have bacon with every meal, no matter how good it is.”

He chuffed at her, but he did finish the pork chops and mashed potatoes she’d prepared. And they never had broccoli again.

He was coming along, taking baby steps day by day, even if there were things they still needed to work on. She was proud of her part in it, though she knew, would readily admit, Bucky was doing most of the work himself. And she would help him, in whatever way she could, not only because she was his sister, but a good person, she knew this about herself, and it’s what any good and decent person would do when someone needed help.

Or at least she thought so, until two weeks after her eighty-second birthday, when Bucky came to her with a new proposition, and she ended up questioning everything she thought about the world as well as herself.

***

“What do you mean you have to leave?” she asked, dumbstruck from her seat at the kitchen table. It seemed they had all of their most important conversations in the kitchen, sitting at the table. “I thought we went over this. I just got you back, you’re not going anywhere.”

“But they’re still out there.” His voice was low, steady, and deadly, _deadly_ serious.

“So what?” she argued. “We got rid of the trigger words, they can’t just say them and turn you into a slave again. We worked damned hard to get rid of them, and you’re free now!”

“We may have gotten rid of the words,” at least he no longer stuttered when he mentioned them, “and you have no idea how grateful I am for that. But they’re still out there, and as long as they are, I’m not free.”

“But – but…”

“And trigger words or not, I was still their greatest _Asset_ ,” he sneered. “Do you think they’re just going to let me go? Even if the words are gone, even if they couldn’t do it all over again, do you think they wouldn’t want tissue and blood samples. Or this back?” He wiggled the fingers of his left hand. “You’ve seen what my body can do, how it heals itself. I don’t have to be alive for them to still get some use out of me.”

“But it’s been more than two years, and they still haven’t found you!” she felt it necessary to remind him.

“That’s because I’ve been careful, and we’ve been very, very lucky so far,” he countered. “The nearest base is in New York, and none of their members live in this town, I know, I’ve checked. But it won’t take much for that to change.”

“Is that why you’re still so hesitant to be seen in public?” she asked, his reluctance suddenly making a lot more sense.

“It’s too big of a risk, at least for right now,” he nodded.

“So what are you suggesting? That you just disappear and I never see you again? Screw that! How is that any better? I’m willing to take my chances.”

“I’m not. Not with your life, _never_ with your life.” He paused and leaned back in his chair, drumming the fingers of his right hand over the table. “And it’s not my only option, not the one I’m considering.”

“Which one are you considering then?” she demanded.

“Rebecca.” His eyes were colder than ice, darker than obsidian and in possession of something she had never seen in him before, something that made her chest tighten and toes want to curl in fear. “You need to take a moment and really consider if you want to know the answer to that question. I’m offering you a choice because of everything you’ve done for me, and if you want the truth, you deserve it. But you need to understand that if you do say yes, it’s going to change _everything_ , and there’s no going back.”

He was serious. She could hear it in his voice, see it in his posture. This wasn’t a joke, or a game, and he was making sure she knew that so she could make her own decision. So she took the moment, thinking about her life, and turning points, and what little she knew about HYDRA. Whatever this was, it was big. But whatever this was, she also knew she wasn’t going to let her brother face it on his own. She straightened her spine and met his gaze with her own.

“What?” she asked, lifting her chin.

“I kill them,” he said bluntly. She was surprised by how unsurprised she was.

“What? All of them?” she heard herself ask.

“No, not all of them,” he said, his eyes narrowed as he studied her. “There’s too many of them for that, and it’s not possible, not even for me. But the handlers, they’re the ones that know about me and the biggest threat.”

“You can’t just go to the police with what you know? Or SHIELD? Shouldn’t they be the ones dealing with this?” she offered as a counter-suggestion. For the first time ever, he looked at her as if she were stupid.

“They’re everywhere, Rebecca, _everywhere._ You need to remember that,” he informed her, as if he were the teacher and she the student. “And besides, what do you think will happen if I just show up at SHIELD’s door with this information? They’ll want to know how I know, and after I tell them, they’ll either lock me up in the deepest, darkest cell they can find, if they don’t execute me on sight –“

“But it wasn’t your fault!” She couldn’t prevent the shudder that ran through her at his words. “None of it was!”

“Or they’ll make me work for them. I’m the only super soldier in the world. Politics is a nasty fucking business, do you think they’re not going to take advantage of what I can do if they can?”

“No.” She knew her voice was small, just like she knew he was speaking the truth. She just hated having to admit it. It was unfair; her brother had already been through so much, he shouldn’t have to go through anymore. “I just wish there was another way. There has to be.”

“There isn’t,” he sighed. “I’ve been trying to think of one for months, and I haven’t come up with anything.”

“It’s too risky,” it was her turn to say.

“It’s risky, I’ll admit, but…”

“But?”

“But there are certain advantages.”

“What possible advantages could there be?” she demanded.

“One,” he began to tick off on his fingers, “the trigger words are gone. None of them will be expecting that. That’s definitely a plus. Two, I’m only going to go after the handlers, like I said. I was their strongest weapon, but also their biggest secret. Only a very privileged few knew about me, and I’m positive they haven’t told anybody else. They wouldn’t want to risk anyone else getting their hands on me. Three,” he ticked off another finger. “They won’t know I’m coming. Even as fucked up as I was when I first showed up here, I made sure to leave a false trail, and it’s long gone cold. Given all the drugs they had me on, they may even think I’m dead. Doesn’t mean they’re not still looking, but they won’t expect a fully functioning soldier to show up. And four…”

“Four?” she asked when he grew silent. The smile on his face, full of razor blades and blood, was as terrifying as the look in his eyes had been.

“I’m the very best at what I do. Even before they did whatever they did to me,” he gestured at his body, “I never once missed a shot. I never once failed a mission, and thanks to them, I know a hell of a lot more ways to take a life now.”

_Reap what you sow_ , the expression went. And she found herself thinking there would be a poetic justice in what Bucky was suggesting. Brutal and blood-filled, but no less than they deserved.

“How many?” she whispered.

“Three, maybe four,” he admitted.

“And you’re positive you can do this?”

“I am,” he simply nodded. “But that’s why I have to leave, because –“

“Oh hell no!” she cut him off.

“You’d be harboring a murderer, Rebecca!” he immediately argued.

“The hell I will! I read that _fucking book_ , and I saw the state you were in when you got here! It’s not murder, it’s no less than those bastards deserve!” she threw back at him.

“Do you hear yourself?”

“Yes James, contrary to appearances, my hearing is perfectly fine!” She slammed her hands on the table.

“Then you’ve got to know how crazy you sound!”

“So what if I do? I thought we proved I was crazy the day I didn’t call the cops when a starving junkie showed up in my garden shed.” Two could play at this game.

“I swear to god –“

“If you don’t come back, _I_ swear to god I will take off all my clothes and start parading up and down the streets shouting ‘hail HYDRA’ until somebody comes to arrest me!” she cut him off. “And trust me, nobody wants to see my eighty-two-year-old tits flapping in the breeze.”

“What is it with you and wanting to take all your clothes off so you can parade up and down the streets?” he asked.

“Everybody needs a fantasy,” she sniffed at him.

“Oh. My. God.” He stared at her, absolutely dumbstruck. “You’re insane. You are absolutely, one-hundred percent insane.”

“Yes, well, I thought we already covered that. It seems to run in the family.”

“Oh Jesus,” he moaned.

“Jesus isn’t here,” she snapped. “Now tell me what I need to know.”

“I can’t believe how well you’re taking this,” he squinted at her.

“I have levels. Unplumbed depths.”

“You sure as shit do,” he shook his head, and then straightened, back to business. “And if you’re sure about this –“

“I am,” she reminded him.

“Then you can’t know anything,” he raised his hand to cut off her protest. “I’m serious. The less you know, the safer you’ll be. We can’t take any chances, Becca, not with this. I said I could do it, but I never said it was going to be easy. It’s going to take time. A lot of it. And I’m going to have to be careful, more careful than I’ve ever been in the past. There’s too much at stake.”

“Which means what, exactly?” she asked.

“Which means you’re not going to hear from me each time I’m out. I’m going to have to go dark every time, and that means absolutely no contact.”

“For how long?” she needed to know.

“At least a month,” he confessed. “I’m going to have to sneak across borders, find my way in, and then leave a hell of a lot of false trails, so they don’t find a way back to you.”

“A month? Are you sure?”

“At least,” he reiterated. “But it’s for your own safety. Yours and mine.” A month. It felt like such a long time, when he’d become such a huge part of her day to day life.

“When…when would you leave?” She needed time to prepare for his absence.

“Tonight.”

That brought her up short. It meant he had been doing a lot more than just following her behind her back.

“You’ve already,” she flapped her hands in the air, “I don’t know what you would call it? Found someone?”

“Located a target,” he admitted. “And yes, I have.”

“And there’s really no one else who can do this?” she tried one last time.

“No, there really isn’t.” She could hear both the honesty and regret in his voice. But she also knew, deep, deep, _deep_ in her heart, he was right. She hated to admit it, but he was.

“Fine,” she finally gave in, knew it was her only option, the one she probably agreed to unknowingly when she first dragged him back into her life.

“But I’m making dinner first,” she rose from her seat. “If you’re going out to take care of those bastards, it’s not going to be on a empty stomach. Not on my watch.”

“You really are insane,” he said to her back.

“So I’ve been told,” she shrugged. “Now what are you in the mood for? I’m thinking meatloaf.

***

They were six of the hardest weeks in her life.

It was not just her worry over Bucky, her fears in regard to what going back into that world, using a talent he admitted he never wanted in the first place, that kept her up at nights, but his absence as well. During the twenty-seven months since his return, in spite of the state he was initially in, they never spent more than a few hours apart, and she missed him, desperately so.

He was company, companionship, someone she shared a history with, however their paths had diverged, and she’d grown used to having him around. Even on his bad days, he was still there, and she hadn’t realized how comforting his presence was, how it filled the house and her life. They were brother and sister, but they also had always been friends, and he was out of her reach now, with no way to contact her if he needed help or was hurt, and that thought terrified her.

She still tried though, kept on with her life like Bucky instructed her to. She had to make sure her behavior didn’t draw any attention, in case someone _was_ watching. He also warned her to keep an eye out for strangers, or be wary of anyone suddenly asking too many questions. He finished by vehemently insisting she keep her handgun loaded and within reach at all times, including at night when she slept. He wanted her to be safe and prepared for any possibility he could not predict.

She heeded his warnings, and continued on with her life. What else could she do? She also discovered, much to her own surprise, she was not so much bothered by _what_ Bucky was doing, but that he had to be away from her to do it. She had seen the state he’d been in, read that _fucking book_ herself. Not only that, but in their last few hours together, over dinner he informed her of some of the other things HYDRA had done, was still doing, with absolutely no remorse. There weren’t just the assassinations, which had been the Soldier’s specialty, but political unrest, and governments they’d overthrown, because they were contrary to HYDRA’s ideals, to be replaced by their own corrupt regimes. Money laundering, blackmail, and human trafficking. Even worse, if there could possibly be a worse, but somehow there was, were the experiments Bucky remembered being spoken of in passing, because why worry about a secret when their Asset was just going to get wiped, his memories erased; biological weapons, gene splicing, mutations on men, women and children, for chrissakes, and none of their subjects willing. Bucky couldn’t stop all of it, not even most of it. But he could cut off a few of the heads.

She found herself agreeing with him. They had to go. They deserved to die, not only for what they had done to her brother, which was more than enough reason in her book, but for all the atrocities they had no compunctions committing in the name of their greater good. This was only his first move, and he would have to be extremely cautious, but if this was what he needed to do to be safe, to stop worrying someone was going to find him, she could care less if it was also an act of revenge. Let them bleed. Let them die. As long as he came home to her, her only regret was that she wouldn’t be able to piss on their corpses once he was done.

So, if asked, she couldn’t truthfully say she was a good person. And she discovered that ultimately she wasn’t bothered by that as much as she probably should. Everybody needed a hobby, and they’d brought this on themselves as far as she was concerned.

With that realization, that acceptance, she decided she needed a new hobby of her own, a project to keep her occupied until Bucky returned.

It took her a little more than a week to come up with one, but once she did she thought it fitting, and a perfect way to show her support of Bucky’s endeavors. She only hoped he would like it.

***

“Bucky, is that you?” she asked, stepping into the parlor with her gun in hand as soon as she heard the key turning the lock.

“Yeah, it’s me.” He closed and locked the door behind him, then turned to study her. “You’ve got the gun, good. But maybe next time don’t call out and let anyone trying to break in know you know they’re there.”

“Well, I am a bit new to all this cloak and dagger shit, you know,” she laughed in relief, remembering to click the safety on. “And thank god, you’re finally back.” It was her turn to study him, to drink him in after six weeks apart. He looked fine, more than, almost exactly as he had when he left, except he’d cut his hair, grown a beard, and dyed both of them blond. It was shocking, and would take some getting used to, but it did make him nearly unrecognizable, even to her. But that didn’t matter, none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was he was back home where he belonged. “Now let me give you a hug.” She reached out and pulled him into her arms, burying her face into his chest. “Thank god, thank god, thank god.”

“I told you I’d be alright,” he assured her, cradling the back of her head with his right hand.

“And you’re not hurt? You’re really OK?” she mumbled into the scarf he was wearing.

“I’m not hurt, and I’m really OK, I promise you, Becca-Bee.” He tightened his own arms around her. “I’m sorry I worried you. How about you? How’re you doing?”

“Better now,” she exhaled, stepping back to look at him, cupping his face in her hands. “Did you…” He nodded. “And it went all right?”

“As well as these things can.” He draped his arm over her shoulder and began to lead her into the living room. “What about you? What have you been up to while I’ve been away?”

“A little bit of this and that.” She placed the gun on the coffee table.

“Anything unusual happen while I was gone? Strangers, people asking too many questions, anything like that?” he asked as he undid his scarf and slid out of his jacket.

“No, nothing,” she shook her head. “At least nothing I noticed, and I was looking for it, just like you told me too.”

“Good.”

“It’s been pretty boring around here, truth be told.” She was already thinking of the dinner she was going to make him; his return was definitely worthy of a celebratory feast. “In fact, I started a new project while you were away. Want to see it?” She reached for the basket where she kept her embroidery.

“I’d love to,” he said, sounding grateful for the reprieve, for something so normal to focus on. Necessary or not, the past six weeks couldn’t have been easy on him.

“Take a look,” she held out her latest project for his inspection.

She was proud of it, feeling she’d outdone even their mother’s finest needlepoint. It was a black velvet scarf, long and soft, which she ordered online. That in and of itself wasn’t particular remarkable. What was, was what she had done to it. A third of the way down, she had carefully stitched the body of a peacock, in blues and greens, paying careful attention to the feathers. But as beautiful as the design was, even that was not what she wanted Bucky to pay attention to. It was the tail, which she had spent most of her time on. There, where the feather’s eye should be, she had embroidered a single, brilliant star, in vibrant, shining reds and golds.

“This is absolutely amazing, Becca-Bee,” he marveled at it, carefully running his fingers over her work.

“It’s for you,” she told him, causing him to jerk his gaze away from the scarf and up to her faze. “Or at least it will be, when you’re done. One star, for each of those motherfuckers you take out. I’ll add a new one every time you have to leave. It’ll give me something to do while you’re gone.”

He was staring at her, dumbstruck. That was fine, she was used to her students staring at her like that, and had long grown used to it.

“You’re serious?” he whispered.

“Dead,” she insisted. Her delivery caused him to laugh softly and shake his head.

“It’s amazing,” he chuckled. “You’re amazing. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you.”

“And don’t you ever forget it,” she grinned. “That’s one down now. How many left to go?”

“Three,” he admitted. “But it’s going to take me some time to locate the next target.”

“You can worry about that later,” she took the scarf from his hand and put it back in the basket. “First, you’re going to let me feed you, because you look alright, but I bet it’s been a long time since you had a good meal.”

“Meatloaf?” he asked hopefully.

“We’ll see,” she brushed past him on her way to the kitchen, smiling as she went. She was going to meatloaf the fuck out of him.

***

**2003**

“I found the next one,” he announced during the spring of the following year.

“Already?” she asked, looking up from the tulips she was planting.

“Took me a bit longer than I was hoping, but not as long as I expected,” he shrugged. “After the last one, they locked everything down and went into hiding.”

“But you still managed to find one,” she stated the obvious.

“I did.”

“When are you leaving?” she sighed, pulling off her gardening gloves.

“In a few hours, while the trail is still hot.”

“Fine,” she grunted, slowly rising to her feet. “But you’re letting me make you lunch first.”

“Fine,” he capitulated, as if he was the one being put out by a meal. “I’m going to get my kit ready.”

“BLTs!” she called after him.

“Thanks.”

**2004**

“I just got a good lead on another one,” Bucky told her the following January.

“Another old acquaintance of yours?” she asked, looking up from the book she was reading.

“Not so much as the other ones, but I did work with them from time to time, and they’re a nasty piece of work. They need to be taken care of.”

As honest as he was with her, and she had to admit his level of honesty surprised her, he never revealed too many details. Not a name, gender, or even location. He insisted it was for her own safety, claiming the less she knew the better. She supposed he had a point, but really, by now she had fully come to accept what he was doing and why he needed to do it. Agreed with him actually. She just hated that he had to go.

“Do you need a lift to the airport?” she asked, instead of saying all of that.

“Did you just offer me a ride to the airport, when you know exactly what I’m going to do?” He was frowning at her.

“Sure,” she waved a hand at him. “Why not?”

“You know, I’m a little concerned with how easily you seem to have accepted all this,” he grumbled.

“Pfft,” she shrugged. “Why would I be bothered? It’s just like a scene from _Arsenic and Old Lace_.”

“Arsenic and what?” he blinked at her.

“And Old Lace. It’s a movie, a classic,” she explained. “We’ll have to watch it when you get back.”

“I swear to god, Becca-Bee.”

“And it’s not like I haven’t already accepted the fact you shot Kennedy. If I can get over that, I can get over anything,” she shrugged again.

“Becca!” he snapped.

“I voted for him, Bucky,” she went on, ignoring his outburst. “I mean, you couldn’t have shot Nixon instead? Nobody liked him. Or even Reagan. I mean somebody shot him, but it couldn’t have been you. You never miss.”

“ _Oh my god!_ Do you even hear yourself?”

“I’m just accepting the facts. Now do you need a lift or not?” When he didn’t answer, just stood there gaping at her, she sighed. “Fine, no lift then. See if I offer you one the next time.”

_“Oh my god.”_

“And what do you want for your send-off meal? How about some mac and cheese? I found a new recipe, with a bacon crust. It looked pretty good, and I’ve been waiting for a reason to try it.”

_“Oh my god.”_

***

**2005**

“You found your next target.” Bucky didn’t have to say the words, she could tell by the look on his face.

“I have,” he said, bowing his head as if this was a confessional and she the priest.

“And this one…this is the last one, right?” she asked.

“It is. Took me a long time, but I finally know where they’ve been hiding. They’re well protected, and it’s going to be a bit riskier than the last time, but once I take this asshole out, that’s it. It’ll be done. No more killing.”

“You swear it?” She reached out to cup his cheek.

“I swear it,” he promised, shifting slightly to press a kiss to her palm.

  
“Then go. Be safe, but do what you have to do, and then come home. Once you do, I’ll make us both a feast like you’ve never seen.”

That night, with the house once again quiet, still and empty, she settled herself on the couch, reached for her embroidery basket, and finally started to work on the final feather of Bucky’s scarf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the holiday season has officially started, I thought for the month of December instead of posting on Tuesdays and Fridays, I would upload a new chapter on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. The story is already written, with quite a bit still left to go, and I thought it might be a nice treat for everyone who has taken a chance on it. 
> 
> Let me know in the comments if you agree or if you'd rather I only update Pearl on Tuesdays and Fridays, your choice. =)


	15. September, 2005 - Natasha Romanova

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible Trigger Warning
> 
> Please note, there is a brief and vague reference to childhood sexual abuse in this chapter, in relation to the Red Room. It is not graphic and only implied, but I wanted to give everyone reading the chance to prepare or skip this chapter. As always, please take care of you. **hugs**

**September 2005**

**Natasha Romanova**

If she were a sentimental woman, one who let her emotions get in her way, there were times when Natasha could admit she hated her job. But that kind of thinking had long been beaten out of her, and there was far too much red in her ledger to allow for such frivolities. Besides, she had been given a second chance; this was her first mission since surrendering herself to SHIELD and her subsequent deprogramming. It was a gesture of faith on Fury’s part, although Clint was with her, supposedly as her partner, but she knew it was to keep an eye on her. Which was fine, she understood Fury’s precaution. But at least he was starting to trust her enough to do reconnaissance for him, valuing her input and unique take on things.

And this was a situation where her experience could certainly help to put things into proper perspective. It was a mess, a bloody and gruesome one, but she’d dealt with worse, had caused worst, and she owed both Fury and Clint her best.

She still kept her secrets of course; she would not be the most successful Black Widow, the only one remaining, if she didn’t. But not when it truly mattered, or at least not when it truly mattered to anyone but herself.

And there was a secret she kept, one not even Fury or Clint knew, a lie she let them believe; that they were the reasons why she defected and switched sides. They helped, and she would certainly admit she was a mess when first brought in, but they weren’t the impetus, the pivot point, the reason why she finally decided to break free from the Red Room and make her own way.

She never knew his name; aside from when they were running a mission together and needed cover identities, he had simply been called the Soldier. She’d wondered at the callsign at first, of course she had, and then a few years later wondered if it was simply because no one remembered his name, including himself.

He had been brought to the Red Room when the oldest of them was no more than ten years old, to further their training, and he’d been a brutal and demanding instructor. Sessions with him left all of them aching, covered in bruises and gasping. But unlike their other instructors, he had not been cruel. He sparred with them, taking each of them down one by one, and was never fooled by a false display of surrender. But once one of them was down, truly defeated, he did not compound that defeat by a kick to the ribs or a backhand across the face. Instead he would hold out a hand that to their shock and disbelief was sincere, and then offer tips and techniques, in halting but perfect Russian, on how to improve or take down an opponent twice their size and bodyweight.

They had been fascinated by him, amazed at his ability and skill, knowing their sessions with him were a privilege granted to very, very few. When the lessons switched from combat to ballet, and he danced with them, his hands steady, strong, secure, but always gentle, that was when she first discovered what it was truly like to fly.

She idolized him, wanted to impress him, and could admit now both she and Yelena had crushes on him, especially after the time one of their instructors, unsatisfied with that day’s progress, reached for her breast, and ended up thrown against the wall with a snapped neck less than a second later.

It took over twenty men with stun guns and cattle prods to subdue him, while her and her five sisters huddled on the floor. Madame B merely stood calmly, indifferent to what was going on, only saying afterwards, “That is what happens when one does not know their place.”

The lessons stopped after that, and it was four years before any of them saw him again. By then he was different. Silent, seldom speaking unless the mission required it, the lower half of his face covered by a black leather mask unless they were on assignment together. But even then, he had still been kind. She remembered a mission in Madrid, Yelena and herself the honeypots whose task was to lure their target out, which they accomplished easily enough. His kill shot had been quick and clean, the body neatly disposed of, once they obtained all the information they needed. They had a few hours until extraction, and even though he didn’t say a word, for no reason either she or Yelena could understand, he treated them to cups of gelato. She waited to hear the price, the expected recompense, other handlers always demanding the same, but he said nothing and simply allowed them to walk around, exploring one of the local plazas, sunlight on their shoulders, their hair, their cheeks.

Another time, after another successful mission, they were waiting in an empty hold of a cargo ship, her and Yelena once again assigned to work with him. This mission had been more challenging, they were all exhausted, and the hold they were in bitterly cold. He opened his arms, allowing them to press up against his sides, sharing his warmth. They were both unable to prevent themselves from dozing off, and when they woke, she was curled up against Yelena, their heads on his lap, covered by his leather jacket.

She wanted to fuck him, would have gladly done so, at fourteen years old the first choice she allowed herself to make. But the one time she offered, making her invitation clear, he simply shook his head, said “Nyet, little ballerina,” in his raspy Russian, the last time she would hear him speak, before walking away. She had been ashamed, humiliated, furious. She was the best Black Widow in the program, and he was the Soldier, none better, and together they could have done great things for Mother Russia.

She was even more furious when she discovered he defected, turning on their leaders, betraying everything they believed in and stood for. She would have slit his throat herself, if they hadn’t thought him dead.

When it became obvious he wasn’t, that he had finally crawled out of whatever hole he dug for himself, and was eliminating those who made them who they were, given them everything, she volunteered to be the one to track him down, and drag him back on his knees.

She was a fool. For as good as she was, and she was the best, she had forgotten he was perfect, and always prepared for contingencies.

Kolchek had been killed the year before and she was unable to prevent Petrovich’s assassination at the Soldier’s hands, but she was an excellent tracker, and having worked with the Soldier in the past, knew how he thought. She had his scent, following him to the abandoned subway tunnel he was using as a base, hunting him down like the disgusting dog he was.

He knew she was there, a web already woven. It made no difference; she was a Black Widow, _the_ Black Widow, and there was no web she couldn’t reweave into her own design.

She never saw him, but she didn’t need to, to know he was there. She led with one of her Widow Bites, throwing it into the emptiness where he hid, and engaged.

They had never fought like this, hand to hand, no reservations between them. And he was good, better than she remembered. But so was she, and she was no longer an awe-struck fourteen year-old girl, eager to impress. She also had a secret, one entrusted to her when she was assigned to bring him in, and she would use it to her advantage.

She faked a kick, allowing him to get near, get his hands on her, and once he was close enough, whispered in his ear, “ _Sputnik._ ”

The word had no effect, and it was her first mistake. The half heartbeat of shock she experienced at its failure was the second. The third, and probably last, mistake she would ever make, if it had been anyone else but the Soldier, was allowing him to get so close, she realized when she felt the pinprick at the base of her skull.

“Ah, little ballerina, did you really think it was going to be that easy?” he cooed softly in her ear, his hold on her unbreakable. She struggled, of course she did, and was impervious to most poisons by then, but whatever he injected her with was both strong and fast acting, her limbs growing weak, her vision blurry. The battle was already done; all he had to do was drop her to the floor and wait.

But he didn’t. He held onto her, lifting her up into his arms, holding her bridal style.

“You…you traitor,” she somehow managed to slur through a swollen and heavy tongue.

“You have always been smarter than this, Natalia,” he told her, carrying her across the tunnel. “Haven’t you figured it out by now? They always lie. _Always._ They’ve been lying to you your entire life.” He laid her down on the ground, being careful of her limbs, her foggy brain realizing he was doing his best to make her comfortable.

“Now, I’m going to tell you three things, and you need to remember them.” He knelt in front of her, keeping his face hidden in the shadows. “I know you’re not feeling your best right now, but you’ve always had an excellent memory, so pay attention.

“The first is that you’ve always been better than this, the brightest one out of us all. You can be so much more than they’ve led you to believe. _You_ just have to believe that.

“The second is that you have choices. They don’t want you to know that, but you do. It won’t be easy, but making the first one will be the hardest part.” He leaned back on his heels, his face still cloaked by the dark, while reaching into his pocket.

“The third thing is a secret, and it’s just for you. Don’t tell anyone about it, no matter what.” He pressed something into her palm. “When you’re ready, use this. It’s not much, but it’ll help. No one else knows about it, I promise. My only request is when you do, you dance. You were always a swan. Spread your wings, and let the world see how amazing you truly are.” Those were the last words she heard before the world went black.

When she woke, with an aching head and sore muscles, he was gone, and she knew there would be no traces. Her jacket was folded beneath her head, but the rest of her clothing remained untouched. And next to her hand, there was a small piece of paper wrapped around a key.

She read it, of course she did. Then, for some reason she did not understand, she swallowed it, hiding the key in her body. And never told anyone anything about it.

She was punished for her failure, of course she was, beaten and starved, called a disgrace and a disappointment. But she never forgot his words.

Six months after that, after Marina and Yelena, when she finally found the courage make a decision of her own, she went to the address written on that piece of paper. It brought her to an abandoned basement apartment in Bucharest, where after a very thorough first, second, then third search, she located a hidden cache in one of the bathroom pipes, sealed in a watertight pouch.

Once opened, it revealed two passports with her face on them, two pistols, easily concealed, with six accompanying clips, three finely sharpened blades, and twenty thousand euros in unmarked bills. Lastly, there was a note that simply said _Good luck_.

Not much, he’d called it, yet it was a treasure trove of miracles when she desperately needed one. And she wished she had the chance to thank him.

Except now it looked like she never would.

The base in Kiev Fury sent her to was still smoldering when she arrived. They thought it abandoned, but were concerned, because there had been whispers, silent chatter that it wasn’t quite as abandoned as originally assumed. There were rumors Rodchenko was there, resuming his research, conducting experiments, and Fury wanted him brought in alive for questioning. But they were too late, the base destroyed, everyone in it dead.

Fury was not going to be pleased.

There was one charred skeleton, among the fifteen there, that drew her attention. The back of its skull was shattered, a kill shot to the head, the one guaranteed means of termination. The most notable feature was its missing left arm, the entirety of the joint completely removed, along with the cracked remains of the cervical and thoracic vertebrae, the exact points where a metal prosthetic would have been connected. Because of course whoever was behind this attack was more interested in the technology than the man, thinking it was the arm that made him great, when it was the least important thing about him.

There had been rumors, among the very privileged few, and even most of them still doubted, believed those rumors to be nothing more than a ghost story, a scare tactic, that the Soldier was once again active. One suggested he was acting on his own. Another that he’d hired his services out. The third, and most worrying to her, was he had been recaptured, and was once again working for the Russians, taking out key figures in an internal battle for control.

Whatever the truth had been, they would never know, and none of it mattered now.

There were barely enough remains to run an autopsy, but once completed, it was enough to confirm his identity, at least for her, as well as her fears. The remains were listed as a John Doe, an unidentified hostile agent, male, between twenty-eight to thirty-five years old, approximately six-foot and six-foot-one in height. She signed the certificate, which few would ever see, confirming the Soldier’s death, and three months later, when they released his remains, she buried them in a small cemetery in Bucharest.

She never learned his name, so instead she had his tombstone inscribed with the words _Dear Friend_ , and cried the only tears she cried since her escape from the Red Room.

“Why didn’t you come to me? I would have helped you, you know. You didn’t have to do it alone,” she whispered, laying the bouquet of roses on top of the freshly turned earth. “You deserved better than this. But I hope at least now, you can finally rest in peace, Soldier. I’ll dance, because you asked me to, and think of you every time. Thank you, for everything. I’ll take care of it from here.”

Then she wiped her eyes, stood, and walked away.

It was time for her to get back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, yeah.
> 
> **grabs pies and dives into bush**


	16. November, 2005 - Rebecca

**November 2005**

**Rebecca**

“Have you found what you’re looking for?”

The sunlight was thin and bright, the sky an icy, crystalline blue, and the wind cold and cutting as it sliced across her cheeks. But they’d come prepared, her brother made sure they were, and the fur-lined hood of her parka shielded her from the worst of it.

Except for the silence, nothing could prepare her for that.

Bucky had been withdrawn upon his return from his last self-appointed task. She feared all of it had been too much for him, and he lost any progress he’d so viciously fought for. When she finally roused enough courage to ask, expressing her concerns, he simply shook his head and told her not to worry.

“It’s not that,” he sighed, flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette into the ashtray resting on the railing of the back porch. He’d started smoking again, not much, but an occasional one here and there. She wasn’t crazy about the idea, but she didn’t mind it, not really, and he only did it outside. “It’s done, and I’m glad. They needed to be taken care of. And I’m finished. Unless it’s to protect you or myself, I’m never taking another life again.”

“Then what’s wrong?” she asked.

“It’s just,” he took another drag from his cigarette and exhaled a thick plume of smoke. “It was messy, this last job. I knew it was going to be, going in, but I had to tie off a few loose ends. Make sure anyone else who might still come looking for me was convinced I was dead. And it was messy, messier than I would have liked it to be. I’m no fan of killing, never was, but believe it or not, even when I had no choice, I always tried to make it as clean as possible.”

“Did you…did you hurt someone who didn’t deserve it?” She did not know if his answer would make any difference to her, but she still needed to ask.

“No.” Of that he appeared certain. “Everyone around that asshole was complicit with what he was doing, and deserved to die. There were,” he paused to swallow, “there were children, already dead by the time I got there, that they’d been experimenting on.”

“Oh Jesus,” she gasped.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “So they deserved it, each and every one of them, and I won’t feel bad about that.”

“You shouldn’t,” she agreed.

“But still, it was messy,” he finished.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pressing herself into his side, offering her warmth and love, hoping it would help, that he’d get some comfort from it.

“Not your fault.” He lifted his arm, his metal one, to pull her close.

“I know, but still, I’m sorry.”

“Me too, Becca-Bee, me too.”

He didn’t say anything after that, and as the days passed, he was unusually quiet, even for him. He was present, interacting with her, but withdrawn, as if there was a weight on his shoulders she could feel but not see.

They went on with their lives, and a few days after that conversation on the back porch, he handed her an envelope that when opened revealed a passport, social security card, birth certificate and driver’s license, with her brother’s new identity, Jacob Benjamin Proctor, born in Indianapolis, Indiana, on August 19th, 1980. They refined his history, going over it again and again, to catch any discrepancies and make sure they had their details straight. He was, as they originally discussed, her grandson, the only child of her only son from whom she had been estranged. He’d been riding with his parents in the back seat of their car, when it was hit by a truck, killing them instantly. Somehow he survived, but his left arm had been badly damaged, and he now always wore long sleeves and a glove on his hand to cover the scars. He’d gone through a rough time, but eventually reached out to reconnect with his grandmother, who invited him to live with her to help him get back on his feet and make up for lost time.

It was a convincing story, that would hold up to scrutiny, and explain not only his presence, but any time he may have previously been seen. He urged her to call him JB, instead of Bucky, as much as possible in public, and they worked on making him a familiar sight in the community, grandmother and grandson seldom seen apart. Her neighbors and friends were curious, surprised by his arrival, but she always demurred when they pressed for more information, saying she had a lot of regrets in her past, and her grandson was a good boy who she was enjoying getting to know better.

It was a distraction, something to keep them occupied, but it was far from enough to keep the long, searching gaze out of Bucky’s eyes. She worried, of course she did, but then he came to her with a request one day at the end of October, and she immediately agreed. It was still so rare for him to ask for anything for himself, and she would not, could not, deny him this.

And now here they were, spending a weekend in the Berggasthaus Aescher, a small hotel in the cliffs of Switzerland, overlooking the Alps.

He was standing on the promenade, arms folded over the railing, staring down at the jagged ravine below. It was early yet, none of the other guests awake, and he’d been there for hours.

It was a beautiful view, she had to admit, the landscape spectacular, with its sharp peaks, snowcapped mountains, and endless deep chasms. But she doubted he was seeing any of that, his eyes far away, their color a perfect match to the sky.

She trundled up to him, clumsier than usual in the layers he insisted they pack for her, not wanting to disturb him, but not wanting to leave him alone either. He knew she was there anyway, it was impossible to sneak up on him, and he shifted slightly, making enough room for her to wedge herself into his side.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured after a few moments of quietly sharing the view. She knew why they were here, he had told her his reasons for wanting to come, and for all that she should hate this place, she could not deny its beauty. He said nothing, just stared and stared and stared, his eyes unmoving, his breathing steady and deep. Until he finally lifted his right hand, pointed his finger, and softly said:

“I died. Somewhere, down there, I fell from a train, and I died.”

His words sent shivers down her spine, and hearing them she could not help but think the view a lot less beautiful than it had been a mere moment ago. But he was sharing his truth with her, one of his most painful ones, and his honesty deserved all the reverence she could give it.

“And then you came back.” It was also a truth, not just his, but hers as well, Lazarus returned from the dead, and it also deserved its respect.

He glanced at her, a sharp, quick thing out of the corner of his eye, before turning all his attention back to the cliffs.

“No, Rebecca, I didn’t. The Bucky you knew, the brother you loved, he died down there, and he’s never coming back. I’m not him. For all that we look alike, don’t ever make the mistake of thinking I am.”

“Yes and no,” she said eventually, taking a moment to carefully weigh her words. This was not so much a field full of landmines they needed to traverse, but a forest, with roots and trees, and a cottage where a witch lived. But it was enough to finally catch his attention, pulling his gaze away from the ravine and to her face.

“You were never coming back to us, Bucky,” she continued, meeting his eyes. “That Bucky, that big brother I remember, we lost him the day his draft letter arrived. I knew that, we all did. Ma used to talk about it, how Da was never the same after he came home from the Great War. Living through something like that changes a person, and they’re never the same. I knew it then and I know it now.” She paused to take a deep breath, because this next part was going to be difficult, _so difficult_ for her to say.

“And then you fell from a train, but you didn’t die. Somehow you didn’t, and maybe you should have, because you didn’t deserve what happened to you, no one does, but especially not you. So maybe death would have been better. But somehow you survived, and I can’t say I’m sorry about that, because I’m not.”

“Yeah, but what I did end up doing –“

“That wasn’t your fault,” she cut him off with a shake of her head. “You didn’t have a choice.”

“But I still did it,” he said.

“And the minute you did have a choice, the first thing you did was get away,” she reminded him. “And that’s important Bucky, that’s so, so, so important and you need to remember that.

“But no, you didn’t die. But you were also never going to come back,” she had to concede. “You’re not the Bucky you were, you were never going to be him again. But you’re exactly the Bucky of now, someone who lived through horrible things happening to him, someone who was tortured and abused for far too long, and forced to do things you never would have simply to survive. And that leaves a mark, deep scars that if you’re lucky will fade over time.

“But, for all of that,” she went on, “you’re still the Bucky you used to be. Parts of him are alive in you, I see them everyday. Your humor, and the way you scowl at me when you’re mad. How you’re as protective of me as you ever were. And how, unless you have no other options, you will always make the gentlest choice possible. No, you don’t laugh as much, and you’re not as outgoing as you used to be, but those parts of you are still there. You’re the Bucky of now, who somehow managed to survive a lot of shit happening to him, no more, no less, and I gotta say, I like this you a whole hell of a lot,” she finished with a smile as honest and warm as the sun, distant though it was.

He stared at her, his eye wide, but something in him just as distant, just as far away as that sun.

“I have a present for you,” she said into the chasm still between them, pulling off her gloves and reaching into her pocket. Her fingers closed around the small box she tucked there before leaving their room. It had been passed on to her for safekeeping, and she’d been waiting for the right moment to give it to him. She thought that would be when he returned from his last mission, but something told her to wait. That same instinct told her to bring it with her on this trip, and that now was the right moment for him to have it. “Go on, take it.”

“What is it?” he asked, lifting it from her outstretched palm.

“Open it and find out.”

“Are these…?” Once opened, the box revealed two golden rings, nestled together in a bed of faded velvet.

“Ma’s wedding and engagement rings,” she nodded.

“Becca-Bee, I can’t accept these,” he shook his head, trying to shove the box back into her hand.

“You can, and you will,” she insisted, refusing to take it. “They were always meant for you anyway. Ma wanted you to have them, hoping you would give it to your first born on their wedding day. When they told us you died, they went to Daniella, and when she died, Gracie got them. When we lost her, they were passed to me. But they were always meant for you, and it’s about time you got them. It’s what Ma always wanted.”

“Thank you,” he swallowed heavily, staring down at the two bands, eventually running his finger over the Claddagh ring. “I don’t think I ever saw her without this one.” He squinted. “She never took it off, right?”

“No, never,” she confirmed for him. “Wore it every day until the day she died. But that’s not the one you should be paying attention to. Look at the other one, her engagement ring.”

“It’s beautiful,” Bucky admitted. And it was. They had never been rich, but they’d also never been as poor as most. While their father couldn’t afford a diamond ring when he proposed to their mother, he had been able to purchase one with a single, perfectly formed pearl, and their mother had loved it, wearing it proudly to church and any other special occasion they attended. It was the pearl she wanted Bucky to focus on.

“Do you know where pearls come from? How they’re made?” she asked.

“No,” he said, looking up from the ring.

“A pearl is formed when an oyster swallows a piece of sand or grit. It irritates the hell out of it, and the oyster spends all of its energy trying to break it down, get rid of it. But that tiny piece of grit is stubborn, and doesn’t give up, and because the oyster can’t get rid of it, no matter how hard it tries, it ends up being transformed into something beautiful and luminous.” She lifted the ring from the box, placed it in Bucky’s left palm, and closed his metal fingers around it. “A pearl.

“You’re a pearl, Bucky. HYDRA found you, and did everything they possibly could to destroy you. And even though they swallowed you whole, the grit of you held on, always fighting back, building layer on top of layer on top of layer, until the oyster finally had to spit you out, or die choking on it. You were dirty and covered in slime, but once we cleaned you up, polished you a little bit, there you were, more beautiful than you’d ever been. A rough beginning, but you glow, just like that pearl. Always remember that, and you’ll be fine.”

“You really – you really believe that?” There were tears in his eyes, making them even bluer, an ocean, an eternity of loss and hardship, but still so very beautiful.

“I don’t believe it,” she told him, tears in her own, “I _know_ it.”

“Thank you.” She was suddenly in his arms, held tight against his chest, as safe and secure as she’d ever been, one of her favorite places in the world.

“You’re welcome, big brother.” She returned the embrace, hoping he felt just as safe, just as secure as she did.

“Although I think you’re wrong. You’re the pearl,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Nah, not me. I’m a bumble bee, remember? Sweet as honey, until you piss me off. Then I sting the fuck outta you.” Her words got the reaction she was hoping for, and he laughed.

“Yeah, I know, usually right in the face too.”

“That’s my fist, you dummy.”

“Silly me, I’ll make sure to remember that from now on.”

“You better,” she snuggled in closer, her cheek against his scarf, the one she embroidered for him, her ear pressed to his heart. “Do you need more time, or are you ready to go back inside?”

“I think I’m ready now,” he eventually said.

“Good,” she nodded, “’Cos I’m starving, and they should be serving breakfast, and I really want some more of those _cholermüs_ before they run out. Those are out of this world.”

“Let’s go get you something to eat, before you start punching people,” he let her go and stepped back, smiling at her. His gaze was still heavy, but lighter than it was before. She could live with that.

“And then maybe we can do a little sight-seeing, before we go home?” she asked. “Take a few pictures, pick up some souvenirs.”

“Yeah Becca-Bee, that sounds good, especially the part about going home.”

***

When they returned to New Jersey, he found a thin gold chain for their mother’s rings, that he wore around his neck, and never once took off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday everyone. I hope you have a great weekend. 🥰🥰🥰


	17. 2005-2009 - Rebecca

**2005 – 2009**

**Rebecca**

The days turned into weeks turned into months turned into years, and their lives went on. Bucky integrated himself into their community, establishing himself as her grandson, companion and caretaker, and everyone grew used to seeing them together, so much so they seemed to forget he hadn’t always been there. He was, as she noted that day in Switzerland, not as outgoing or carefree as he once was, but he could also be very charming when he wanted, to the point where a few of her friends asked if he was single, making sure to let her know they had granddaughters. She always smiled at this information, and passed it along to Bucky, but he never expressed any interest in meeting them. She wondered about it, wondered if that was something else HYDRA stole from him, but he never said and she didn’t press. All he would say was he was happy where he was, with their lives, and that he enjoyed spending his time with her. Since she felt much the same way, she held her tongue.

Besides, he was still recovering, would probably always be. But that was something else they worked on together. They continued doing yoga in the mornings, Bucky eventually joining her in a few of her classes, and took walks together around the lake. He began to help with the gardening, and did any needed household repairs. He mowed the lawn, repainted the rooms and outside of her house, fixed the shutters, and cleaned the gutters, all without complaint, and her home had never been so well-tended. He grew so proficient at it, her neighbors started asking for his help, which he always agreed to, and well below cost.

He wrote in his journals, and continued his wood-working, whittling the occasional figurine, but switching his focus to keepsake boxes. His first few attempts were simple and nothing special, but for her eighty-seventh birthday, he gave her a beautiful box with a stunningly detailed bee etched into the lid. Even better, and to her absolute delight, once opened, if she pulled up one of the side panels, flipped it over and slid it back into place, a hidden drawer popped out, revealing a concealed compartment.

“We used to use those in the war,” he explained to her thrilled laughter. “To pass along secrets and information.”

“Thank you Bucky, it’s absolutely gorgeous. I love it!” she beamed.

They travelled a bit, smaller trips usually, to places like Niagara Falls or Boston, with an occasional vacation to someplace farther away, and one memorable one to Paris, when they flew first class, which Bucky paid for.

When she asked him about it, suspicious, he merely shrugged and said, “It wasn’t just the handlers I remembered. There were also account numbers. I drained those, and rerouted them to a couple of untraceable offshore accounts. Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of cash, we’ll be fine.”

“You did?” She didn’t know why she was surprised at this point.

“Those fuckers never paid me for a damned thing they forced me to do. I figured they owed me at least that much.”

“I suppose,” she had to admit, and then sighed. “And it’s no worse than shooting JFK.”

“Oh my god! I said I was sorry.” Bucky threw his hands in the air.

“I voted for him, Bucky.”

“Yes, I know, you never stop reminding me.”

They made a habit of going to movies together, and Broadway shows at least three times a year, whose pros and cons they debated on the drive back to Jersey, and Becca had to admit they were some of the best years of her life.

That wasn’t to say they were perfect or problem free. Bucky still had bad days, sometimes bad weeks, and there were nights when his dreams chased him from his bed. But with a careful and determined persistence, she eventually convinced him to start talking about it. He was hesitant at first, not wanting to burden her, but she kept at it, and slowly but surely, he started sharing his experiences with her, usually in the mornings, sitting side by side on her porch swing, where as long as it was warm enough, they ate breakfast while watching the sun rise.

It was hard at first, to listen to him talk about it; all the pain, fear and horror he’d been forced to endure. His regrets, so many of them, and his rage at what had been done to him. His own conflicting feelings regarding the few moments of happiness he’d felt, usually when he spoke of his little ballerinas, followed by even further regrets for not being able to do more for them. Not easy, no, but necessary, and she did her best to ease him through it, with patience, kindness, encouragement and love. It helped him, being able to talk freely about it, although he sometimes stuttered and stammered in his retellings. Yet something loosened in him each time he did, and if he was unable to forgive himself, he eventually started to accept those aspects of himself, and if not come to peace with it all, he at least found his balance.

From what they could both gather, he’d regained most of his memories, which were less confusing now he had more context to draw from. He still asked her for clarification from time to time, but he occasionally remembered people, events, and places even she’d forgotten.

In exchange, she spoke of her own life and the struggles she faced while they’d been apart. She thought it only fair, and he listened quietly, his eyes patient, never contradicting her experiences, only apologizing for not being there for her. It helped her, almost as much as it helped him, and they grew closer and closer as a result. They were probably what others would have considered a bit codependent at this point, but they truly enjoyed each other’s company, always had, and after everything they’d been through to get here, they could not have cared less what anyone else thought.

There were few, if any, secrets left between them at this point, but there was one memory, _one person_ , he never mentioned, no matter how many hours they spent talking. It might be a Pandora’s Box, but that did not mean the lid shouldn’t be opened.

“You never talk about him, you know,” she said one morning, deciding it was long past time to start picking that lock. They were once again sitting together on the porch swing, her with her embroidery in her lap, him with his woodwork.

“Who?” he asked.

“Steve.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Bucky immediately froze, his hands stopping mid-whittle, and between one heartbeat and the next, he transformed from her brother into the perfectly wrapped and near invisible stillness of the Soldier. She had witnessed it before, and while it seldom happened now, it still surprised her every time she did. She sometimes wondered if he could make himself disappear in front of someone’s eyes simply by willing it. But she started this, and knew they had to finish it, no matter where the path led them.

“I mean, we talk about everyone else, all the time,” she forged ahead. “Ma, Da, Daniella and Gracie. And he was a part of our family too. I just wondered why you never bring him up.”

One deep breath, followed by another, and then he blinked, and blinked again, not quite as transparent as before, but not fully opaque yet either.

“Why would I?” he finally said, something soft but eldritch in his voice, a sigh that had waited millennia for its exhale. “He’s dead.”

“But so are Ma and Da, along with our sisters,” she went on, but not unkindly. “And the two of you,” _were thick as thieves, always in each other’s pockets, and I never saw you smile the way you did when the two of were together,_ she thought, but did not say. “Best friends since you were kids. If Ma or Mrs. Rogers was looking for one of you, all anyone had to do was find the other. And then the two of you served together in the war,” _and that forges a different kind of brotherhood,_ “so you must’ve seen parts of him none of us ever got to. You can talk about that too. I’m actually kind of cur-“

“I hated him.”

It was her turn to freeze mid-stitch at his words. Because that did not make any sense; she had seen the two of them together, and their bond, _their bond_ had transcended friendship, family, blood and bone.

“Who? Steve?”

“No, not Steve,” Bucky released a small half-laugh, bitter and spiteful. “Captain America.” She had nothing to say to that, so she said nothing, watching as he looked back down at his whittling with a disgusted shake of his head.

“What kind of friend does that make me?” he went on without any prompting. “Don’t get me wrong, I was happy he was healthy and could breathe right, and there was no more pain. But the one thing I wanted, _the only thing_ I ever wanted, was for him to not get messed up in that fucked up war we were in, and yet there he was right in the middle of it, because of course he couldn’t do a goddamned thing anybody told him to, even if it was for his own good.

“But fuck me if he didn’t prove everybody wrong, including me, because he was great at it, a natural born leader and brilliant, and we would have never won the war without him. But it still pissed me off, because he was all those things, but now that he was a foot taller and gained a hundred-and-fifty pounds of muscles, everyone could see it, when it’d been there all along. And all of a sudden, they were paying attention to him, listening to what he had to say, and I was happy for him, he deserved it, but…” And here he trailed off with a vicious shake of his head.

“But?” she asked gently, putting her embroidery down to give him her full attention. His hands were trembling, microfine shivers in his fingers, usually so steady, especially whenever he held a knife.

“But he was mine first, before anyone else’s, and I hated Captain America for taking him from me,” he whispered.

_Ah,_ she thought. _Ah._

They had torn off the lid of Pandora’s box, however unintentionally, and instead of demons and all the evils of the world being unleashed, it was the soft whisper of a heartbroken man. And all the worse because of its softness.

She was not surprised, not really. She’d never been blind, or stupid, and noticed the way Bucky used to look at Steve, the way he smiled when they were together, how his eyes lit up whenever Steve did something that was just so uniquely Steve. She wondered about it in her youth, but never spoke of it or asked. One simply didn’t when they were younger. And Bucky had dated plenty of pretty young girls from their neighborhood, so she thought the point moot at the time.

Then there were Bucky’s trigger words, and three of them, _longing, seventeen_ and _homecoming,_ were linked to Steve. It made so much more sense now; a feeling, an age of realization, who his heart thought of as home. Take those, twist their meaning, turn them into painful instead of precious, and who wouldn’t break under that? She didn’t think she could hate those HYDRA assholes anymore than she did, but she was finding new levels of disgust every day.

But this wasn’t about those scumbags; this was about her brother and the secret he carried for far too long.

“You were in love with him, weren’t you?” she said as kindly as possible. She wanted to make sure he knew, understood, she didn’t judge him for it, didn’t think any less of him because of it. He jerked his gaze to her face, and in his eyes was a look she hadn’t seen in a while, but was still far too familiar. It was how he looked at her at the very beginning of all this, when he first returned, and was positive he was going to get punished for some wrongdoing he was certain he committed. She hated that look even more than she hated HYDRA.

“It’s OK,” she quickly reassured him, reaching out to rest her hand on top of his knee. “I don’t care, most intelligent people won’t these days, although there are still plenty of idiots out there. There’s nothing wrong with it, there never was.” She needed to make sure he understood this. “And it doesn’t change a damned thing about how I feel about you.” She squeezed his knee, and scooted closer to him, pressing herself against his side, draping his left arm over her shoulder. They were speaking of Steve, but this was their love language, the one they always shared, and she wanted him to know they were still speaking it. “I’m just sorry you had to keep it a secret for so long. That couldn’t have been easy for you.” His heart was rabbiting, his breathing a little too quick. She leaned in further, giving him all of her weight.

“Did he know?” she asked, once he calmed, the tension slowly ebbing out of his body with each breath he took.

“No,” he shook his head.

“You never said anything about it to him?”

“Are you crazy? Of course I didn’t!” There was a tremble in his voice, as if he could not believe they were discussing this. Or as though he was relieved they finally could. She thought it likely a mix of both.

“Why not?”

“Why not?” he glared at her. “Because he would have laughed in my face, if he didn’t punch me first. Because he got enough shit being sick all the time and cos of how he looked, and he didn’t need to be dealing with that on top of everything else. And…” His swallow was so loud she could hear it.

“And?” she urged him.

“And…he wasn’t like me,” he eventually finished.

_Ah._

“You like men, like that? Other than Steve, I mean?” she asked carefully.

“There was only ever Steve,” he exhaled. “But…I like women and men. Made time with both. I don’t know why, just always have.”

“It’s called bisexuality, Bucky,” she chided him gently. “And that’s OK too. Although I now understand why you were so shocked when we started watching _Will and Grace_. It must have seemed so strange to you.”

“It was.” There was the first hint of a smile on his face, barely there, but so much better than the fear from a mere moment ago.

“I bet.” And then it was her turn to grow somber. “I’m so sorry, Bucky. That can’t have been easy on you.”

“It was what it was,” he admitted. “And it didn’t matter anyway. He never felt the same, and then he met Carter, and you’d’ve had to been blind to not see the way he looked at her. He’d found his person, and I was happy for him, I really was…It just cost me mine.”

She heard his words, was listening to him with every inch of her being, and yet…

They were always honest with one another, always had been, and were even more so now. But she carried a secret of her own, one she’d held onto for even longer than half a century, entrusted to her care, and she did not know if its time had come, if she should reveal it.

There had been a day, not too long before Bucky received his draft notice, when Gracie and Daniella’s fighting chased her from her family’s apartment and into the one her brother shared with Steve. Steve had recently gotten over his latest round of influenza, and for the first time in weeks, Bucky was planning to enjoy a night out on the town. He’d invited Steve, but Steve declined his invitation, saying he felt better, but not quite ready to be ignored by every gal in the place. Bucky offered to stay home, but Steve insisted he go, that he deserved to dance after spending weeks looking after Steve. It was a typical Friday night in their apartment, the two of them bantering back and forth while Bucky selected something to wear as Steve sketched at their lopsided kitchen table, and she was long used to it by now. Except they had both fallen quiet, and it was the quiet that caught her attention, causing her to look up from Bucky’s latest issue of _Strange Stories_ to see what was going on. Bucky was absorbed in picking out a shirt. And Steve…

Steve was watching Bucky, staring as if impossible for him to look away. She was used to the way Bucky looked at Steve, how his entire face changed when he spoke of something the two of them did together. But Steve was looking at Bucky as if Bucky were the sun and he Icarus. There was fire, desperation, hunger in his eyes, and she remembered wondering if this was why Steve was so small, because the passion in him consumed all the energy he needed for anything else. It was enough to make her gasp, and as she was sitting on Steve’s right side, next to his good ear, he heard, and snapped his gaze to her.

When he saw her staring, the look on his face transformed from one of absolute adoration to one of pure, unadulterated terror.

“Right,” Bucky’s voice cut through their tableau, as he walked across the room, clothes in hand. “I’m going to go shave. Can the two of you please try to stay out of trouble and not punch anyone for the five minutes I’m gone?” Then he was out the door, on his way to their floor’s shared bathroom.

They remained as they were, staring at each other, Steve’s mouth hanging open, and her eyes as wide as plates.

“Becca...” Steve eventually stammered, causing her to shake her head.

“It’s all right,” she remembered saying to him, not unlike she had just said to Bucky. “It’s – it’s OK if you love him. I understand if you do, and it’s OK.” And then, just like she had now, she reached over and wrapped her fingers around his wrist. He was so slender, always had been, his bones feeling like a bird’s beneath her hand. He was even smaller than her, and she was the shortest person in their family, after her mother.

“You can’t tell him.” For all that he was tiny, his voice was rich and deep, and he had a tendency to growl when angry. But he wasn’t angry now; he was terrified, as if he’d forgotten he was also a part of her family, or thought she would take this too from him, when the world had already robbed him of so much.

“I won’t, I promise you,” she shook her head. Then she smiled, to prove nothing had changed between them. “Although I definitely think you could do better. He’s the biggest pain in the ass in all of Brooklyn.”

Steve’s half-snort was the reaction she’d been hoping for, and it released the tension in the room. Until Steve’s expression grew somber once again, and he glanced down at his sketchbook, where she noticed for the first time he’d been drawing Bucky. She couldn’t help but wonder how many pages of his sketchbooks were filled with portraits of her brother.

“No, I can’t. I never will.”

She wondered if she should share that memory with Bucky now. They had been fools, the both of them. But Steve was dead, and it would only hurt her brother, more than he was already hurting, to know this was something else lost to him forever. Sometimes it really was better to let sleeping dogs lie. She focused instead on the last thing Bucky said.

“Carter?” she asked, furrowing her brow. The name sounded familiar, a hook catching in her brain.

“Agent Margaret Carter, of the SSR,” he explained. The memory caught, and she was able to reel it in.

“Brunette? Very pretty, English?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Bucky eyed her sharply.

“I met her once.”

“Did you now?”

“Uh-huh,” she nodded, remembering the poised and elegant woman who had shown up at their door. “Not too long after V-Day actually. She came to the house, said she wanted to offer her condolences personally since we were listed as Steve’s next of kin as well as yours.” Their mother had been impressed, thanking Miss Carter for her consideration while crying into her handkerchief. Becca thought differently, thinking her too poised and elegant, unable to help but notice how the woman’s eyes took all of them in, before studying the walls as if searching for secrets. Yes, it was kind of her to show up in person, but they already knew both Bucky and Steve were dead, and Becca just wanted her to leave. “She was very polite, and seemed sincere, but…”

“But?” Bucky pressed when she didn’t go on.

“But, I dunno,” she shrugged, “she was kind of cold, and I got the feeling she wasn’t telling us everything.”

“Huh.” When she looked up, Bucky was staring into the distance, squinting the way he usually did when reaching for a memory.

“Steve really was in love with her?” she wanted to know.

“Yeah, he really was. Said she noticed him even before the serum, the only one who ever did,” Bucky sneered. She could understand his sneer. Steve had been _Bucky’s_ pearl, except Bucky had seen Steve’s glow when he was still nothing more than a bit of grit too stubborn to ever stop fighting, before anyone else. And dragons never liked it when someone tried to steal their treasure, growing jealous and spiteful. She supposed she could also understand Steve’s reaction to Margaret Carter; she had been very beautiful and who wouldn’t be flattered by a beautiful woman’s attention. But then she thought again of the way Steve looked at Bucky, and there had definitely been dragons there too. She didn’t think it was as simple as Bucky made it seem. But then again, love was seldom ever simple, and it was too late to change any of it. She decided to focus on the now instead.

“I’m sorry you lost him,” she told him. “But you don’t have to not talk about him. I loved him too, you know. Not like you did,” she was quick to add, “but he was like another big brother to me, and I miss him. I think we’re the only two people still alive who ever really knew him.”

“Maybe,” he said after a few seconds, that faraway look still in his eyes.

“And I know from personal experience that talking about the people you love after you lost them, especially after you lost them, helps. I learned that after Bobbi passed. So don’t ever think you can’t talk about him to me. You loved him, and you lost him, and I know how much that hurts. You know I’m here for you, don’t you?”

“Yeah, Becca-Bee, I do,” he tightened him arm around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “And thanks.”

“You’re welcome. And besides,” she decided it was time to shift tactics, add a little levity into the situation. “You really need to start dating again. Do you know how tired I am of Elise telling me all about her single granddaughters after every yoga class?”

“Oh my god!”

“Although, the last time I saw Greta, she was going on about how her grandson just broke up with his boyfriend, and since you like both, maybe I should ask for a picture?”

“Do you hear yourself?”

“We should probably talk about safe sex as well. Things have changed a lot since the forties,” she continued, feeling evil. “There are some really neat new toys too. Bobbi and I –“

_“FalalaIcan’thearyou!”_ he covered his ears with his hands.

“And you aren’t just stuck using Vaseline or lotion anymore. You have a lot more options than you once did.”

“I know what lube is,” Bucky blurted, and then looked shocked by what he just said.

“Oh ho ho! Do you now?” she cackled. “Is that why you wouldn’t let me open those last few boxes from Amazon?”

“You know what? I’m gonna go make lunch,” he rose from the porch swing, stomping into the house.

“It’s barely even nine o’clock!” she called after him.

“I’m not discussing my sex life with you!” he shouted back.

“So you have a sex life?”

“ _Oh. My. God!_ Will you shut up?”

***

A week later, when Bucky told her he was going to take a daytrip to DC, since he’d never been, she waved him off and told him to enjoy himself. She had already been there plenty of times, usually as a chaperone for her high school’s annual senior trip, and there were only so many visits she could make to the Washington memorial before even she started making penis jokes. Besides, she had an errand of her own she needed to run.

Once Bucky left, she made her way to Landing’s bookstore to pick up the two books she ordered over the phone a few days ago. As soon as she got back to the house, she went into Bucky’s room and laid the fully illustrated hardcover copies of _The Joy of Sex_ and _The Joy of Gay Sex_ on his pillow with a smile. He was going to be furious with her, and she could not wait to hear his reaction.

But she was, and always had been, his little sister. And it was her God-given right, nay her duty, to tease the ever-living shit out of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and that your week has started out well. And in case you were wondering, comments, like pearls, are always greatly appreciated. 😊😊😊


	18. 2009 - Margaret Carter

**May 2009**

**Margaret Carter**

“Do you have everything you need, Miss Peggy, or is there something else I can get you before I check out for the night?”

“No, thank you Corey,” she told her caregiver, after a quick glance at her nightstand. “I should be all set.”

“All right,” Corey nodded. “Just so you know, Erica’s on shift tonight, and Claire will be checking in on you in the morning.”

“Thank you.”

“Have a good evening, Miss Peggy,” Corey said with a smile.

“You as well, my dear,” she answered just as her door clicked closed.

It wasn’t the worst of places for her to end up. For one thing, she was still alive, which had not always been a guarantee, given her career. Secondly, she had a comfortable private room, with large windows that let in plenty of sunlight during the day, and she was free to roam the grounds whenever she saw fit. Her children visited when they could, as did her niece. And if she wanted something, usually a book, all she had to do was ask, and it was brought to her within a day. There was a lovely patch of garden she could tend to, and plenty of benches beneath trees, so she could find a spot to sit and read. Most days, her mind was still sharp as a trap, and she enjoyed keeping up with current affairs as much as possible.

The problem was the other days, when her recollections slipped and she forgot faces, dates, and when she was. It had not been so bad at first; not remembering where she left her keys, or going to the grocery store and forgetting what she was there for, things she simply attributed to age. Then she got lost, not able to find her way back to the home she lived in for the past twenty years, wandering the streets for hours until a SHIELD agent found her. Even worse, not too long after that, she hadn’t recognized her own daughter Elizabeth, repeatedly asking her what the hell she was doing in her house, while searching for a gun.

It was undeniable at that point, and something had to be done, so she agreed to move into the senior care facility in Arlington, one fully vetted and recommended by both Nick and Sharon. Thankfully she was not the only one in a similar situation. Her fellow residents included a general, a former head of the FBI, several retired senators, and a few previous chiefs of the military’s Research and Development departments. And the staff, while accommodating, gracious, and fully qualified to be there, were all also either former or active SHIELD agents. When one knew more secrets than even the President, but tended to babble, or were unable to always tell friend from foe, those secrets needed to be safeguarded at all costs. Everyone at the care facility acknowledged and respected what they’d done, but also understood what their patients knew needed to be protected at all costs.

The medications she was on also helped tremendously, but there was no cure for Alzheimer’s, and they informed her there were occasions when she announced she needed to go, because there was a meeting in Geneva it was imperative she attend, or spent hours calling for Daniel, when her husband died more than ten years ago. She was trying to not be embarrassed by those days, but it remained a hard pill for her to swallow.

Today had been a good day. Sharon visited, and they shared a lovely lunch together. After that, she managed to finish a book she’d been reading for the past week, eager to start the next in the series. But it was late now, she was tired, and was more than ready to get some sleep.

Or at least she was until she reached for her bedside lamp.

She may not have been active in the field for at least twenty-five years, and her mind was no longer as sharp as it once was, but for more than four decades she had been the very best of the very best, and those skills would never leave her.

Someone was in the room with her, who had not been there less than a minute ago.

“If you’re here to kill me, I will tell you now others have tried, and no one has managed to succeed yet,” she announced, laying back on her pillows with a smile.

“I’m not here to kill you.”

The figure that emerged from the shadows was tall and broad shouldered, his footsteps silent, every move he made coiled and perfectly controlled.

“Better men than you have made the attempt and failed,” she said, reaching for the alarm button at the side of the bed.

“Don’t bother,” the voice went on, “it’s disabled.” And then he stepped out of the shadows and she needed to blink to prove her eyes were not deceiving her.

“Sergeant Barnes?” she asked, her mind, what was left of it, racing.

“Hello Carter,” Barnes said, taking another step forward. “Surprised to see me?”

He was wearing a black shirt beneath a matching leather jacket, and dark jeans. His hair was longer, but the exact same brown she remembered it being. He’d been skinny the last time she’d seen him, all of them running on little more than fumes most of the time during the war, but he’d filled out some since then, not quite bulky, but lean and powerful, potential in his every movement.

And his eyes, his eyes were the same. Almost as striking as Steve’s, but a pale, icy blue, where Steve’s had been vibrant. That color was rare.

They never liked each other, tolerating the other for Steve’s sake only, which was a shame. Steve had been a brilliant tactician, able to recount the tiniest detail, and turn the smallest opportunity into an advantage. Barnes had been nearly as brilliant, with a completely different style. Steve could always find a way to push through a problem, reaching whatever goal he set for himself or his team. Barnes knew how to work around one, find a different solution to achieve a desired result. And while Steve never had an issue picking up a gun and shooting someone who needed to be shot, his second in command was the one with no compunctions about slipping into a base in the middle of the night, and slitting everyone’s throat while they slept. One black, one white, each the other’s half, and in all her years since the war, she never encountered any pair who worked as well together as they did. She had plans for him after the war; someone with that level of skill could not be wasted in a civilian life. She just needed to convince him of that, which would have been difficult granted, given their animosity, but she had always been persuasive and knew she would eventually get him to see her way. But then he died, Steve following not too long after, and she needed to start from scratch.

“What are you doing here? Did you come to reminisce about the good old days?” she arched an eyebrow at him.

“I’m here to ask you a question.” He took another step forward, drawing even closer.

“Oh really? And what could that question possibly be?”

“Did you know?” That was the thing about Barnes. For as charming and smooth talking as he could be, when he wanted something he never prevaricated, going straight for the kill. She wondered if Steve had known this, understood and accepted this, about him.

“Did I know what?” she parried. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Barnes.”

“That I survived the fall from the train. That I was still alive. Did you know?”

And here was the very tip of his knife, pressed to her throat. He was using words, not steel, but the blade was just as sharp. Instead of pulling away, yielding to it, she lifted her chin instead. Even now, she would mewl in front of no one.

“You did,” he said after a second, his eyes narrowing, the only hint of any emotion on his face.

Of course she had known. There had never been any proof, nothing concrete, but in the fifties, then the sixties, whispers started, hints, of a deadly assassin, more dangerous and efficient than anyone the world ever saw before. Impossible kill shots, that never missed, with an accuracy she only ever encountered once in her lifetime, and that sniper died near the end of the war.

Then there had been the abandoned HYDRA outpost they discovered, based on a tip from Zola. When she and Howard arrived, several younger but trusted agents in tow, they found a chair that would not have been out of place in Dr. Frankenstein’s lab. The seat was stained with shite and piss, with metal braces for the arms and legs, and a crown for the head. Howard had been fascinated, marveling at its design while she scoured the rest of the room for information. There had been a glint of metal in one of the corners, and she’d barely been able to make out _57038_ before Nick’s voice over their comms informed them a self-destruct sequence had been activated, and they had less than two minutes before the entire outpost exploded.

They were forced to leave everything behind, barely making it out in time, and once she returned to DC, she immediately confronted Zola about it.

_“What would I know about what went on there?”_ the little worm shrugged. _“I’ve been here for years. If it was still active, that was long past my time.”_

So there was nothing concrete, but a spy’s greatest strength was not their skill with a weapon, but their instinct, and she had more than enough facts to put the pieces together. Could she have done something? Possibly. But the political spectrum was a very different place than it had been during the war, and every decision had ramifications she needed to carefully consider before taking action.

“Perhaps,” she said to Barnes in the now.

“And you did nothing about it? Just left me there?” he hissed.

“We were at war, Sergeant.” She refused to feel any shame about the choices she had made. “World War Two was over, but the Cold War was unlike any that came before. It was up to me to make decisions, none of them easy, and I couldn’t waste resources on a single soldier, no matter who he was, and risk the balance we were working so hard to maintain. It would have all come tumbling down like a house of cards, and no individual was worth that risk, not even you.” If he had been still before, by the time she finished he was even stiller, not a single muscle moving or breath taken.

“Steve would have disagreed with you.”

And there was the slash, the slit to her throat, as deadly as he had ever been.

“Steve wasn’t there to ask,” it was her turn to hiss, “and he would have agreed with me, if he knew the stakes.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” His voice shifted with those words, dripping condescension. “Steve wasn’t like you. You can fool yourself all you want, and think you knew him, but in reality, you only knew for a few weeks in the end. You forget, I knew him his entire life, and he never would have stood for someone being left behind. His very first mission proved that.” He drew closer, cocking his head.

“He’d have been so disappointed in you,” he tsked at her. “But then again, you never were good enough for him.”

“How dare you!” she snarled. “Get out! Get out! Getoutgetoutgetout! You’re dead! You should have stayed dead! _Getoutgetoutgetoutgetoutgetout!_ ” She reached for her book on the nightstand to hurl at him just as her door burst open.

“Miss Peggy, what’s wrong? Are you alright?” Erica called, running into the room.

“Get out!” she shouted, throwing the book, the night nurse barely dodging in time. “You’re dead! You’re dead! You’re dead!”

“Who’s dead, Miss Peggy?” Erica asked, approaching the bed slowly, her hands held up.

“Barnes,” she panted, reaching for her water glass.

“Who?” Erica took another step forward, ducking to avoid being hit by the glass.

“Sergeant Barnes,” she repeated, scouring the room with her eyes, only to find it empty. “He was - he was just here.”

“There’s no one here, Miss Peggy,” Erica tried to reassure her.

“But he was,” she argued. “I just saw him, we were having a conversation.” Except, aside from the book she had thrown and shards of glass on the floor, her room was exactly as it had been when Corey left. Her windows were closed, the curtains drawn, her closet and bathroom doors shut.

“There’s no one here, Miss Peggy,” Erica repeated, opening the doors and performing a thorough check, as if reading her mind.

“I’m telling you, he was here,” she insisted. “Look, I can even prove it. He said he disconnected the alarms.” She pressed the panic button, expecting no response, shocked when the pager clipped to Erica’s waist lit up and began vibrating.

“I’ll have security do a thorough check of the entire grounds, and review the camera footage, just in case,” Erica said. “But there’s no one here. And I was right outside, I can promise you no one came in or out of your room.”

“But I…I…I could have sworn,” she pressed her hand to her forehead. “He was here, I know it.”

“You’ve had a long day,” Erica soothed, “and you’re probably exhausted.”

“I am _not_ a child. Stop treating me like one,” she snapped.

“I know you’re not, Miss Peggy, and I’m sorry if I made you feel that way,” Erica smiled at her. “But why don’t you lie back down and try to get some rest? You’ll feel better after you get some sleep, I promise you. And then tomorrow morning you can speak to Dr. Conrad. It might be time to adjust your medications.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few words on Peggy's characterization in this chapter.
> 
> I like Peggy, I do. And she's a fan favorite for a reason. But I also think she's a much more complicated, and sometimes darker character than she's often given credit for. As one of the founders and heads of SHIELD, she needed to make some very difficult decisions and I don't envy her that responsibility. That said, some of the choices she ended up making were certainly questionable. Operation Paperclip was real, and the fact of the matter is Peggy and Howard played a very dangerous game and were at least partially responsible for HYDRA's infiltration of SHIELD. Peggy either knew what was happening on some level and deemed it a worthy risk, played a very dangerous game that ultimately had devastating results, or was unaware of what was going on, and I have a hard time believing she didn't. It doesn't make Peggy a bad person, just a very complicated one, with her own failings and shortcomings, whose decisions had very long lasting effects. 
> 
> You can read more about this take on Peggy [here](http://cinemalogue.com/2020/06/29/heroes-reflect-our-ethos-the-moral-dissonance-of-the-mcu-and-america/) where Meghan White goes into it in more depth than I ever could. 
> 
> I also have a hard time believing Steve, who has always done the right thing and stood up to bullies, would have agreed with a lot of the choices she made, but those aspects of Peggy's personality were what I wanted to explore a bit in this chapter. 
> 
> Either way, I hope you enjoyed it or at least found it somewhat interesting. A new chapter, where we get back to Becca's life with Bucky, will go up as usual on Friday. =)


	19. 2009 - Rebecca

**November 2009**

**Rebecca**

The first Tuesday in November was one of the hardest days, one that broke her heart and would haunt her for the rest of her life.

“So what do you think?” Bucky asked from behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

“It’s amazing,” she laughed, patting his right hand with her own, while twisting her head back and forth to get a better view of the pink and purple streaks in the mirror. “I love it!”

Over the past few years, what little color left in her hair faded, the tawny tendrils bleeding into white. It was still long and thick, but she missed the bright copper penny color of her youth, one of the very few things, along with her eyes, she had been vain about. When she mentioned it to Bucky, he merely looked at her, shrugged, and said, “So dye it.”

“Don’t you think people will notice if I suddenly have a headful of bright red hair?” She fingered the few strands that had come loose from her braid. “Besides, I don’t think you can get my natural color from a bottle.”

“So dye it something else then,” he offered, as if it were obvious.

“What, purple? Like all the kids are doing these days?” she asked.

“Why not?” he shrugged again. “Purple, pink, blue, green, whatever you want. It’s your hair.”

“I’d look ridiculous,” she scoffed.

“You’d look beautiful, no matter what color your hair is,” he smiled at her. “Besides, you got the youngest heart outta anybody I know. And it’s your hair, it’s nobody else’s business what you do with it.”

“True,” she admitted, taking another glance in the mirror. “What color do you think I should pick?” He chuckled.

That had been three weeks ago, and after some research, along with a few trips to the local drugstore, the results were in, and there were now a series of purple and pink streaks in her hair. In an act of solidarity, and to make sure he understood the process, Bucky added a few streaks of the same color to his own, originating at his temples and flowing all the way down to the ends, which now reached his shoulders.

Bucky was looking good these days, healthy and fit, with clear skin and bright eyes. Not only that, but after years of gentle encouragement, and the final acceptance he was indeed free, he started to develop a new style of his own. While he remained perfectly happy to lounge around the house in pajama bottoms and sweatshirts, whenever they went out, he tended to prefer slim-fitting jeans, tight henleys, and interesting t-shirts he wore over long-sleeved ones. He had a sharply cut pea-coat, leather jacket and a denim one he alternated between, depending on the season, and an ever-growing collection of scarves, hats and even a few bandanas he sometimes wrapped around his hair. When they needed to dress up a bit, usually on nights they headed into New York City to catch a Broadway show, he would put on a well-fitting cashmere sweater and a pair of creased trousers, and she could not help but notice how many young women and men tried to catch his eye. He preferred combat boots to most other footwear, but he recently began to incorporate brightly colored Converse sneakers into his wardrobe, that he mixed and matched with the belts he’d also started to accumulate. He seemed to prefer darker shades, mostly blacks, greys and deep maroons, so the bright pops of color on his feet always made her smile. He was turning into quite the fashion plate, a touch of forties glamor with a dash of modern-day rock star, and she enjoyed watching the evolution of his style.

So while the vibrant streaks of color in her own hair were a bit of a surprise, one that would take some getting used to no matter how much she loved them, on him they worked. As she stared at their reflection in the mirror, she could not help but think that they really did look like grandmother and grandson, one old, one young, but obviously from the same family.

And then she looked again, because something about that thought bothered her, and she couldn’t figure out why. They had the same eyes, same cheekbones, same dimple in their chin. Their faces shared a similar shape, although his jawline was much sharper. Her hand was still resting on top of his, and it was as she was staring at it that it clicked.

She had the hands of an eighty-nine-year old woman; they were wrinkled, covered in liver spots, her knuckles swollen with the arthritis that finally started to set in. His flesh hand was pale, smooth and completely unblemished, a young man’s hand.

When she brought her gaze back up to their faces, the resemblance was still there, but while she had jowls, wrinkles, and lines permanently etched into the corners of her eyes and mouth, aside from his hair, he looked almost exactly the same as he did in his service photo, if not a bit younger.

They had attempted to work out his age at one point, starting from when Bucky fell from the train and subsequent capture, using his memories, assignments, and best guesses as to how long he spent in and out of cryostasis to come to an estimate. They concluded he was approximately thirty-five years old when he first appeared in her shed in April of 2000. But that was over nine years ago, which meant he was in his mid-forties now. Except it wasn’t the face of a forty-four year old man staring back at her in the mirror; there were no creases at the corners of his eyes, no lines around his mouth, and not a single grey hair on his head or in his eyebrows. The oldest thing about him was his eyes, staring back at her from a young man’s face, unmarked by time.

He wasn’t aging, had not aged a day since he came home, and she could not hold in her startled gasp once the realization hit.

She was going to die one day, hopefully not for quite a few years yet, but one day. She was an elderly woman, and while still surprisingly fit for her age, the signs were already there; the arthritis, not just in her hands, but her hips and knees as well. The cataract surgery she needed to have two years ago, which Bucky nursed her through. The way she tired much more easily than before, often leading to a nap in the middle of the day. The bursitis that still flared up in her shoulders, in spite of the anti-inflammatories she took and physical therapy sessions she attended. As a result, Bucky was often the one who dried, brushed and braided her hair for her in the mornings, his fingers nimble, quick and gentle, just like he had that morning after they’d rinsed all the dye out in the kitchen sink.

She was going to die, in ten years’ time if she was lucky, and he was once again going to be all alone, the last Barnes standing, the only one left.

She shuddered, an involuntary reaction so strong she was surprised it didn’t bring the house down on top of them, and when she again looked at him through the mirror, his eyes, his old, old, _old_ eyes filled with understanding and regret as they met hers.

“You finally realized, didn’t you?” It was her big brother’s voice, the voice he always used when something was bothering her and he wanted to make her hurts go away. Soft and gentle, but his. Always, always his. “I was wondering when you would.”

“You already knew?” She spun around and took his face into her hands, pulling him close to scan every inch of his features, hoping she’d missed something, that there was some clue, some sign, to prove she was wrong.

“I figured it out a few years ago.” He let her look, let her fingers trail over the path her eyes travelled. “You kept getting older, but I wasn’t. Nothing about me is changing, not the way it should.”

“Nothing?” she asked, just to make sure.

“No, not a thing. Not even a single, new mole,” he closed his eyes so she could run her fingertips over them. “I guess Zola was right, and that _Formula 798F_ worked better than even he could predict.”

Somehow, _somehow_ , this was even worse than anything else HYDRA had done to him. They stole not only fifty years of his life, but also his death. And even more horrifying, how long would he have been tortured, abused, forced to serve if he hadn’t escaped when he did?

“Oh no, oh no, oh god no, Bucky.” The tremble in her voice matched the one in her hands, and she had no idea what, if anything, she could do to make it better. But there was nothing, not a single thing, either of them could do to fix this. All she could do was pull him into her arms, holding him tight, and wish she never had to let him go.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered into his shoulder. “Oh Bucky, I am so, so sorry.”

“It’s alright,” he murmured back, pressing a kiss into her hair. She was eighty-nine years old, and he was not aging, but he was still, and always would be her big brother. And for him that meant it was his job to comfort her. “It’s alright, Becca-Bee. It’s alright.”

But it wasn’t. And it never would be, not ever again.

Author's Note: BTW, in case any of you were wondering what Becca looks like, these are a few of the photos Bucky's got of her in his phone. =) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter as well as Bucky's pics of Becca.
> 
> Also, since we are in December, if you're looking for a bit of Stucky Christmas cheer, I did write a holiday story last year called A Nativity of Oranges, which you can find [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21828250). I hope you enjoy it if you do decide to give it a try. 
> 
> =) =) =)


	20. 2010 - Yelena Belova

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible Trigger Warning
> 
> Please note, there are brief and vague references to childhood sexual abuse in this chapter in relation to the Red Room. None of it is graphic but I still wanted to give anyone reading this a warning so you can decide for yourselves to read or skip this section. As always, your safety and well-being is the most important thing. **hugs** Please take care of you.

**February, 2010**

**Rebecca**

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright?” Bucky asked for what must have been the thousandth time.

“Yes, Bucky,” she answered for the thousandth and one time. “I told you, I’ll be fine. I’m eighty-nine years old, not helpless.”

“Still…”

“And Greta’s already promised to check up on me every day.”

“I know she did, but I don’t like leaving you alone,” he paused just inside the doorway, backpack at his feet.

“It’s only going to be for a week, right?” she asked, studying him. There was something in his posture that drew her attention; it was a bit off, a bit tighter than usual, and it made her wonder where he was really going, and why. Initially she thought it was a great idea. He was a young man, and as much as they loved each other, he couldn’t possibly enjoy spending every minute of his time looking after his elderly sister.

“Yeah, just a week, maybe less.”

“And this trip…it’s important?” She decided to dip her toe in the water.

“Yeah Rebecca, it is,” he admitted with a nod.

_Ah_ , Rebecca was it. That meant whatever this was, it was serious.

“Should I get out my embroidery?” she ventured. “Start working on a new feather?”

“No,” he immediately shook his head. “It’s nothing like that, I promise. Well, not really. It’s just, I think I found someone I thought dead, and I need to check if it’s really them, see how they’re doing.”

“An old friend?” she asked.

“I hope so,” he shrugged. “So maybe yeah, I might ask you to add something else to the scarf. But not a feather. And don’t start on it until I get back, when I know for sure.”

***

**Yelena Belova**

Even though it had been years since she escaped the Red Room, there were things that never changed, absolutes neither time nor experience could alter.

Superficialities could definitely change, like the tides flowing in and out, and hers certainly had. But that was by design. Cheek implants, a reconstructed jawline, nose job, and one breast reduction, to which the plastic surgeon in South Korea raised an eyebrow, and a few days later she left his clinic looking like a completely different woman. She debated going back to blow up the building, destroying any possible evidence, but she was supposed to be starting a new life, and it would take time she did not have. Besides, she needed to pick up the brown contact lenses that would conceal the blue of her eyes.

She kept her blonde hair though; she always liked being a blonde, and it was the last thing left she had of her mother, useless as the woman had been, and she thought it suited her.

As did her life running her café in Lakki. The Greek island of Leros was probably the last place anyone would expect a former Black Widow to settle down, but that was the entire point. It was small enough not draw any international intention, but still had enough tourists in the summer to keep it interesting. Even more importantly, it granted her the perfect amount of privacy to keep her ear tuned to what was going on in the world, so she would know if she needed to go even deeper into hiding.

That was an absolute that would never change. While no longer a Black Widow, the training held, and she knew she needed to always be prepared for any eventuality.

A second absolute that would never change were Americans. Even though she no longer believed the propaganda her former masters shoved down her throat since she was five years old, they were still obnoxious and self-centered, and easy enough to pick out of a crowd.

Like the one sitting in her café, in his overpriced cargo shorts, parka and hiking boots, despite it being ten minutes from closing. Most of her customers had already left, and she’d sent Thalia, the single waitress she employed, home half an hour ago. And yet this asshole was still there, sitting in her favorite seat no less, a corner table that shielded most of his back while allowing him to stare out at the boats in the harbor. The selfish prick only ordered a single frappe, which he’d been nursing for the past half hour, and it was annoying the fuck out of her. She was tired and wanted to go home. So she decided to chase him out and back to whatever hotel he was staying in.

“We’re closing,” she announced sharply in her perfect Greek, tray under her arm. She could do a lot of damage with that tray, with anything in the room really, which he would discover if her tried to give her any trouble. The asshole merely shrugged, not bothering to look at her.

Typical American.

“Did you hear me?” She added a stomp to her steps. Normally she would have switched to English by now, but this idiot didn’t deserve it. “I said we’re closing.” She stepped around the table, fully intending to glare at him, knowing even with her contacts in, her glare was enough to wither the dick of even the biggest asshole, and froze.

His hair was longer than when she last saw him, but the ends were neatly trimmed and there were blond streaks in it now. It was held back from his face by a pair of wrap around sunglasses, making him appear more Californian than Russian, but that was an art they were both well versed in. He was still pale, but it was the paleness of moonlight, not death, and more handsome than he was in her memories.

And though it had been over fifteen years since she saw him last, she would never forget those eyes, blue glass and icy mountaintops, the exact eyes now staring at her over the rim of his glass.

“What – what are you doing here?” She took a step back, tightening her hold on the tray, suddenly more afraid than she’d been in the past five years.

“Hello Yelena,” the Soldier said, his Greek as perfect as hers. But that was no surprise; between the two of them, they could speak at least forty languages. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“I am not going back, you can’t make me,” she snarled, adjusting her posture and shifting her balance to the balls of her feet. She would fight tooth and nail for her freedom, peel his face off if she had to. It probably wouldn’t work; none of them, not even Natalia, had ever been able to best him, but she refused to go down without a fight.

“Good,” he smiled at her. In all the training sessions they’d shared, all the ballet lessons and missions they’d run together, she never once saw him smile like that. It transformed his face, revealing a dimple and making him even more devastatingly handsome.

“And I’m not here to take you back.” He lowered his glass and placed his hands palm up on the table to show he was unarmed. As if that would make a difference. “I heard a whisper, a teeny tiny one, that took me a very long time to trace. But I’ve always been a curious man, and I wanted to see if it was true.” While his identity was unknown to most, to those in the wrong circles, his skills were legendary. If he wanted to find someone, they were going to be found, no matter where or how long they hid. And it seemed, for some reason, he wanted to find her. “I’m not here to bring you back, I swear it. I just want to talk.”

That was the other thing about him. For as deadly and dangerous as he was, for as rare as his words had been, in their convoluted and complicated lives, he was not a liar, had never once lied to any of them. It was that fact that allowed her to relax a fraction.

“You know where I live?” The question was redundant; if he was here, he already knew everything about her life. He merely nodded his head. “Meet me there in twenty minutes. Now get out of my café. We’re closed.”

***

Exactly twenty minutes later, no more, no less, just as she pulled her contacts out after a quick sweep of her apartment, there was a quiet knock on her door. Which was a courtesy, since she knew there was no lock he couldn’t pick.

“They said you were dead,” she accused, once she closed and locked the door.

“They said the same about you,” he answered, switching from Greek to Russian, following her into the kitchen and sitting at one of the two chairs while she dug through her cabinets. His voice was as quiet as she remembered, somewhat smoother although there was still a bit of a rasp to it. The biggest difference was in its tonality, and how that tone varied compared to its dead flatness from before. She supposed it could be considered soothing, and it was still capable of keeping secrets, but overall it was a nice voice.

“Yes, well, even the leaders of the Red Room and the biggest heads of HYDRA can be outsmarted if you’re clever enough.” She placed two tumblers and an unopened bottle of vodka on the table before taking a seat of her own.

“Just so.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the bottle. “Vodka? Not ouzo?”

“You’ll have to drag me kicking and screaming before I ever go back to Russia, but nothing will ever beat our vodka.” She unscrewed to cap and poured them each a healthy shot.

“I’m not here to drag you back, Yelena,” he accepted the glass from her outstretched hand.

“Then why are you here? The truth.” She easily swallowed the contents of her own and poured herself another.

“The truth?” he repeated, doing the same. “Is that I was looking for you, and I really do just want to talk, make sure you’re OK.”

“Why?” she demanded, slamming her glass down on the table.

“Do I need a reason?”

“Everybody has a reason for the things they do. Serve the greater good, elevate Mother Russia the way she deserves, hail fucking HYDRA. Why would you be any different?” She stared at him, using every trick she’d been taught, plus the ones she taught herself in order to survive, to search for the tiniest of tells that would give his motives away.

“Because I was worried about you. Because you always deserved better.” He smiled at her again, the same smile as before, and she could not sense the slightest scrap of dishonesty in it. “And maybe because it gives me comfort knowing I’m not the only one who got away.”

She was a spy, among other things, or at least she had been once, and she was trained to notice and recognize the smallest of details, the slightest change in posture or breathing, that would reveal the lie. There was none of that in him. Not that he still couldn’t be lying, but that had never been his way. All she could read from him as they sat across from one another was a crystal clear and annoyingly pure honesty. Which pissed her off, but was acceptable. And he was already here, what other choice did she have?

“Fair enough,” she sighed, refilling both their glasses.

“The decapitated corpse in the river was a nice touch,” the Soldier said after a moment.

“So was the one-armed skeleton in Rodchenko’s lab,” she said lowly, letting him know he wasn’t the only one who kept on top of things.

“Thank you,” he acknowledged with a nod. “Messier than I usually like to work, but I had to tie off the loose ends.”

“Same,” she admitted.

“But the more I thought about that body in the river, the more I began to doubt the truth,” he added. “You were never going to be that easy to kill. You were always smarter than that, and a damned better fighter. I helped train you myself, so I would know.”

“Thank you,” she nodded. “But you never were an easy one to fool.”

“Survival instinct,” he admitted.

“Just so,” she repeated his words from earlier. “But an important one.”

“Agreed.” He clinked his glass against hers and took another healthy swallow.

“Can I ask why?” he followed up a few seconds later. “Why did you decide to leave? Not that I blame you, of course, but I’m curious.”

She took a few moments to consider her words, whether or not she should tell him the truth. She didn’t know why it would matter to him, but he was right, they were the only two who ever escaped, well, except for one other, but unlike her they had chosen very different paths.

“Natalia killed Marina,” she finally admitted, causing his eyes to widen. “One of our own, our sister, and she shot her in the head because she was ordered to, because Marina had the audacity to start thinking for herself, question things.

“I had been questioning things for years, and was tired of it, all the lies and bullshit they’d been shoving down our throats, and knew I’d be next. And as good as I am, Natalia was always better. I would never see her coming, and I didn’t want to die.”

“You always did know how to think for yourself, even as a little girl.” Another grin, this one even broader than the previous ones. “It’s one of the things I liked best about you.”

“I had to. No one in that place, not even my sisters, were ever on your side. And I wasn’t going to give those bastards any more than they’d already stolen from me. They wanted me to use my body to seduce and my knives to kill, and for what? They claimed we were serving some “greater purpose,”” she made sure he could hear the quotation marks around the last two words, “but what we were really doing was their dirty work for them, while they sat around growing more and more powerful, their hands clean while ours were covered in blood. They can spew their bullshit all they want, but there was no profit in it for any of us, there never was, and I was tired of being their dog.”

“That was the second thing I always liked about you,” he laughed, “for all their speeches about communism, you were always a capitalist at heart. Even when we trained, you were perfect and precise, but you never gave a single iota more than what was needed, unless there was something in it for you in the end. It made you a bad Black Widow, but an even deadlier opponent.”

“Madame B never shared your opinion on the matter,” she said, causing him to frown.

“Madame B?” he murmured.

“The head of the Red Room, the one who supervised all our lessons?” It was her turn to frown.

“Tall…Blonde?” he shrugged.

“You don’t remember her?”

“A little, but not much. It’s still a bit of a mess in here, and I haven’t gotten everything back.” He tapped his temple.

“Lucky for you then,” she snorted, refilling their glasses. “She was a bitch, never satisfied, always making sure we knew how disappointed she was in us, no matter what we did.”

“She…had a cane, didn’t she?”

“That she used to whip us with, if we were lucky. If we weren’t, we got even worse.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she leaned back in her chair. “She’s dead.”

“Your work?” he asked.

“No,” she took another sip of her vodka, relishing the burn in her throat. “From what I heard, she was on a yacht somewhere, enjoying some vodka of her own. Too much apparently, because she fell over the sides and drowned. I thought it might have been your work, but I guess not.”

“Not my style,” he shrugged.

“Dead is dead, and that’s all that matters in the end.” She waved her hand in the air. “The only thing I’m upset about is that the bitch died wearing her earrings.”

“Earrings?” He paused with his glass halfway to his mouth.

“You wouldn’t remember them, but she had these earrings she used to wear all the time. Small ones, rubies and diamonds, supposedly given to her by a mark she fell in love with. When they decided he was no longer useful, they ordered his death. And she did it, without any hesitation. As a reward for her loyalty, they let her keep them and she wore them every day. Me and Natalia were fascinated by them. We both wanted them, but I knew they would look better on me than anyone else.”

“You could buy a pair of your own now,” he offered.

“I wanted hers,” she took another sip of vodka. “Not some imitation.”

“You always did know what you wanted, another thing I always liked about you.”

“I wanted to fuck you,” she announced, just to see how he would react. He jerked back, dropping his glass. “Oh, you don’t remember that either? We both did, Natalia and I. We used to have a bet going. Which one of us could get into your pants first.”

“You were _children,_ ” he hissed.

“I killed six men by the time I was eleven years old,” she retorted. “I stopped being a child the day they dragged me into that studio.”

“Which never should have happened to you in the first place.”

“But it did,” she stated, and heard herself sigh. “Do you want to know the worst part?”

“It gets worse?” he asked.

“It always gets worse, _always._ ” She met his eyes. “We didn’t even want to fuck you. It was an impulse they implanted in us, a test of the potential Black Widows, to see which one of us could seduce the infamous Winter Soldier.”

“You were children,” he repeated, ice and knives and death in his voice.

“You never gave in, no matter how shamelessly we threw ourselves at you, and we were punished for our failure.” She didn’t know why but she suddenly felt the urge to cry, when she had not cried about anything in decades. But she refused to give anyone, even him, any of her tears.

“I didn’t understand it then,” she forced herself to continue, hating the weakness she could hear in her voice. “But I do now. It was a kindness. You were the only one who was ever kind to us, for all that we were trapped there, and I never got to thank you for that.”

“You deserved more than kindness, Yelena.” His voice was just as weak, just as regretful as hers. “You deserved a life, a good one, with friends and birthday parties, and dates with boys your age.”

“I have a life now,” she lifted her chin. “And no one will ever tell me who to fuck or kill ever again.”

“Paid a heavy price for it though,” he said.

“You’re probably the only other one who knows exactly how heavy that price was,” she admitted, refilling their glasses yet again, swirling the vodka in hers before taking a sip. “Have you managed to get rid of the trigger words?”

“That was two months of projectile vomiting and nosebleeds I wish I could forget,” he exhaled with a groan.

“Never mind the migraines.”

“Please don’t mention the migraines,” he grumbled.

“Worth it though,” she lifted her glass.

“Worth it,” he agreed, clicking his against hers.

“Have you seen her?” she asked, once their tumblers were empty. It was hard to talk about her. They’d been so close once, as close as they could have possibly been, given their circumstances. Or at least Yelena thought they had. But their paths diverged, like the branches of a tree. Still, the three of them survived somehow, clawing their own ways to freedom. They were the only ones, and there was a kinship of some sort in that.

“Once.” At least he didn’t pretend to not know who she was talking about. “It didn’t end well.”

“It never does with her.”

“She seems to have found her own way,” he eventually said.

“She only escaped one master just to serve another. Why go through all that trouble to do the exact same thing?” she wondered aloud.

“She needs a purpose, I suppose.”

“She always did,” she cut in.

“And if it makes her happy…”

“Bah!” she retorted. “Happiness. I think that is the most American thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“What can I say?” he shrugged. “It’s a hard habit to break.”

“You’re American?” she asked, shocked.

“Born and bred,” he smirked with a wink.

“How did I not know this about you? After all these years?”

“You weren’t the only one stolen from your home.” All the levity in his voice was gone, just like that.

“No, I suppose not,” she had to agree. “Are you happy?”

“I have my good days and bad days,” he said after a moment. “Things I’ve had to accept about myself. But most days I’m content. You?”

“Happiness is an American ideal,” she sniffed, then paused to think about her answer. “But, I run my own business and get to watch the sun rise over the water every morning. The locals are friendly enough, and nobody here knows about my past. It’s a small life perhaps, but it’s mine. So, like you, I guess you could say I’m content.”

“Then I’m happy for you.” He put his glass down and rose from his chair. “And that’s all I really wanted to know.”

“Leaving so soon?” she asked.

“Let’s not pretend you wouldn’t be kicking me out in the next five minutes anyway,” he laughed. It was a nice laugh, and she was glad she got the opportunity to hear it. “But if you ever need anything Yelena, just give me a call. We might not be friends, not really, but we’re not strangers either.” He rattled off a number, knowing she only needed to hear it once in order to commit it to memory. She would more than likely die before using it, but it was kind of him to offer.

“I know I have no right to ask this,” he began a few steps from her door, “but would it be all right if I hugged you, just once, for old times sake if nothing else?”

“In exchange for your name,” she countered, crossing her arms, causing him to arch an eyebrow. “You know mine, and where I am. And you’re not the Soldier anymore, I can’t keep calling you that in my head.”

“I have a lot of names,” he said. Of course he did. Like her, he knew it was best to always be prepared, have back up plans in place. “But to the people I love, I’ve always been Bucky.”

“Oh you really are an American,” she scoffed, but she could not help but wonder about those people. She knew better than to ask if there was a wife or girlfriend, and he was not wearing a wedding ring. Yet if there was someone in the world he loved, who loved him back, then she was grateful. He was kind, always had been, and after everything he’d been through, he deserved at least that much.

“Hello Bucky,” she held her arms open. “I’m Yelena, but you already knew that.” His arms were strong, she knew they would be, but their gentleness surprised her. He didn’t clench or grasp or try to hurt. He just held her against his chest, a warm but soft mountain of strength.

“Be happy, Yelena. It was good to see you.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, let her go, and was gone, his steps silent in the hallway. She knew they would never see each other again.

She headed into her kitchen to wash their glasses, leaving them to dry in the rack before making her way to the bathroom. She changed into her pajamas and was brushing her hair, when she walked into her bedroom, and for the second time that night froze.

There was something there, glittering beneath the moonlight streaming through her window. It took her another step to realize what it was, the brush falling from her hand.

On her pillow was a pair of diamond and ruby earrings, Madame B’s earrings. The ones they had just spoken of. The ones she once so desperately wanted for herself.

“Oh fuck you, you motherfucker,” she whispered, picking them up. But it was with gratitude, not just for the earrings, but his visit, and the confirmation he was the reason she could sleep better at night.

Then she turned around and headed straight back into her bathroom to see if the earrings would look as good on her as she always thought they would.

They did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a couple of writer's notes if that kind of thing interests you. If not, please feel free to just ignore. 😊
> 
> I'm a linear writer. I start at the beginning of a story and write it all the way through, not jumping from scene to scene like I know a lot of other authors do. That said, when I write a story it's usually because a scene has popped into my head fully formed and I'm trying to figure out exactly what led to that point. For Pearl, there were three that made me decide to write this version of Bucky's recovery. The discussion between Bucky and Yelena in this chapter, where he gives her the earrings was the third scene I imagined. The second was Becca and Bucky in the Alps, when Becca gives Bucky their mother's rings and tells him he's a pearl. The very first scene that took life in my imagination will be in the chapter posted on Friday. It's the one that inspired everything else, and I hope you enjoy it when it finally goes up. 
> 
> So there you have it; a bit of my process and why I decided to write Pearl. Either way, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and that your week has started off well. 😁


	21. 2012 - Rebecca

**2012**

**Rebecca**

In May of 2012, aliens apparently decided to invade New York City.

At this point, she didn’t know why she was surprised anymore. Her brother had come back from the dead with a metal arm attached to his body, something called the Hulk destroyed half of Harlem, and there was a man who flew around in a red and yellow tin can, shooting lasers from his hands.

So really, why not aliens at this point? Never mind the fact Norse gods were also real, and one of those bastards personally invited the aliens to invade Earth.

She could adapt. She certainly had before. It was just…

“Where are the tentacles?” she wanted to know.

“What?” Bucky asked, barely sparing her a glance from where he’d positioned himself by the window. He was in full Soldier mode now. As soon as the news broke about the invasion, he was on his feet, practically carrying her to her bedroom, where he carefully ensconced her in a pile of pillows and blankets in the corner of her closet, with a pre-prepared go bag filled with supplies, a laptop and her loaded gun, instructing her to keep track of the online news feeds. Once satisfied she was as secure as he could make her, he ordered her not to move, returning less than a moment later with an automatic pistol and dagger strapped to each thigh, two more guns holstered on the back of each shoulder, carrying a bag containing two more rifles, two additional laptops and his smartphone. Apparently their quiet little house in Landing doubled as a weapons locker.

“I’m just saying,” she glanced back at the laptop screen and footage from CNN. There was plenty of video, most of it blurry and streaming in from cell phones, but very little concrete information. New York City was definitely under attack by some extraterrestrial force, but other than that the details were unclear. “Shouldn’t there be tentacles?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Her question was enough to make him look up from the two laptops he was navigating with his left hand, while doing the same on his mobile with his right.

“I mean, they’re aliens,” she shrugged before glancing at her laptop screen. “Aren’t they supposed to have tentacles? They do in all the books we’ve read.”

_“Are you out of your mind?”_

“What?” she shrugged again. “Aliens always have tentacles. They use them to, you know,” she waved her hand in the air, “stake their claim.”

“ _Oh my god!_ Aliens are attacking New York City and you’re disappointed because there isn’t any _tentacle porn?_ ” he nearly screeched. It was the loudest she’d ever heard him.

“It’s your own fault you know,” she ignored his tone. “You were the one who downloaded them –“

“Which I will regret to my dying day –“ he tried to interrupt.

“Because we got bored with the gay werewolves,” she continued over his protests. “And the aardvark shapeshifters. And the cowboys, also gay, I might add. Those poor horses.” She shook her head. “The gay space pirates just seemed logical after that.”

“ _Do you hear yourself?_ ”

“Yes Bucky, I do. I’m old, not deaf. My hearing is perfectly fine,” she snapped, pausing to watch what looked like a huge space whale crash into a building. “Huh.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky grunted in response to the same footage.

“Do you think it’s HYDRA?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“No,” he shook his head. “Not their style. Too chaotic, too obvious. They like to do their dirty work behind the scenes. This…this is something else.”

“Yeah, aliens,” it was her turn to grunt.

The minutes ticked by, slow as treacle, more reports coming in, terrified reporters with dirt streaked faces filling her monitor screen.

“Do you think they’re looking for their mates?” she ventured into the heavy, stilted silence.

“Who?”

“The aliens,” she repeated. “Do you think they’re looking for their mates and that’s why they’ve come?”

“Oh my god!”

“They could’ve just asked, you know, instead of attacking Manhattan. I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who would happily volunteer to have a tentacle shoved up their ass. If they had any, which I’m still not seeing by-the-way.”

_“Oh my god!”_

All observations about tentacles aside, it was looking bad, getting worse by the minute. She knew she should feel more fear than she did, but her brother was there, armed to the teeth, and he would die before he let anything happen to her. She only hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Then something changed, new players arriving on the scene. A woman with blood red hair. That green thing from Harlem. The man in his yellow and red tin can. Another with a cape and hammer that appeared to shoot lightning bolts. Followed by an archer, of all things, but at least his arrows exploded whenever they hit a target.

And last but not least, a man who…a man who…

Was tall…

And muscular...

And blond…

Dressed in red, white and blue…

Wielding a circular shield, that cut through the air, leaving a swath of dead aliens in its wake.

It…it was Captain America. In the middle of midtown. Doing what Captain America had always done, taking a stand against evil and protecting the innocent.

“Bucky,” she gasped, looking for her brother, wanting to know, needing to know, if he was seeing the same thing she was. From his slack mouth and the way his eyes were locked on his own laptop screens, it was obvious he had.

“No,” was all he said.

“It’s – it’s Steve.”

“No,” Bucky snapped, slamming both laptop screens shut at the same time. “It’s not. It’s not possible. _He’s dead._ ”

***

Except it was.

And he wasn’t.

***

Two weeks after the Chitauri invasion, once the dust settled and the cleanup was underway, they held a press conference, announcing the formation of the Avengers, a new team of uniquely qualified individuals to handle the ever-increasing threats facing the world. They were to be led by none other than Captain America, whose lost plane was recently discovered, its only passenger miraculously unharmed.

“Bucky,” she reached across the couch and grabbed his wrist. On the screen, Steve stood there, patiently answering question after question. He did not give away too many details, saying while the city had changed and he was surprised to be here, he was looking forward to working with his new team. His responses were gracious and polished, not a hint of his Brooklyn accent remaining. It was his public persona, the one which captivated the entire nation during World War Two, the long-lost hero thought dead, stepping out of the newsreels and back into everyone’s life. Like most of the country, she cried tears of relief at the news.

Bucky, on the other hand, spent the past two weeks sullen and withdrawn. Once it became clear the battle was over, he ordered her to stay locked in the house, while he went out and checked on all their neighbors. Fortunately no one in their community had been hurt, or had family in Manhattan during the attack, although the final death toll was heartbreakingly high. But other than that, aside from continuously monitoring the news, he hadn’t done or said much of anything. He had his doubts, as did a lot of people, but after today’s official announcement, he could no longer deny the truth.

“It _is_ him, he’s alive Bucky!” she tightened her fingers around bones unyielding, giving it a little shake. “Oh my god, it’s a miracle.”

“So?” he muttered, his voice flat and indifferent. It was in direct contrast to the way he chewed on his lip, to the point where it was actually bleeding. Having seen for herself how much damage his body could sustain and how quickly he recovered, he must have been gnawing it raw for hours.

“So?” she couldn’t keep the shock from her voice. “So it’s wonderful! He survived somehow, just like you did. That means you can go see him. I’m sure –“

“No.” The finality in his voice rivaled that of a gunshot.

“What do you mean, no?” she asked.

“I said no, Rebecca.”

“Why not?” She let go of his wrist. “The two of you grew up together, you’re his oldest friend, and I’m sure now, especially right now, he would love to see a familiar face.”

“Oh really?” His eyes were sharp, gimlet in the afternoon light pouring in through the windows.

“Yes really.” She had never once, in all her life, been intimidated by him, and she had no intentions of starting now. “Just go, find him, I know you can, and talk to him.”

“And what would we talk about, hmm?” He tilted his head. “About how his oldest friend didn’t die when he fell from the train? About how that friend ended up working for the fuckers he sacrificed his life to stop?”

“That wasn’t your fault!”

“About how I was the deadliest assassin in the world for over fifty years, who killed men and woman in cold blood, because they ordered me to? Or how I even managed to assassinate a US president, for chrissakes?”

“Well, it wasn’t like _he_ voted for him, so I doubt he would be too bothered by that fact.” It was the wrong tactic to take, but it was a habit by now to tease him over it.

“No, Rebecca, I won’t do it.”

“Bucky,” she tried again. “You were always at your best when you were together. You needed each other, and I’m sure that hasn’t changed, especially not for him, especially not now.”

“He has his new team,” he stated.

“It’s not the same!” If she were younger, she would have stomped her foot.

“Maybe not,” Bucky shrugged, “but neither are we. And look at him Becca, look. _Really_ look at him. Less than a month out of the ice, and he’s already jumped right back into the middle of fighting. Say I did go and talk to him, say he ignored everything else, how long do you think it’d be before I’d be dragged right back into the middle of it? And I can’t go back to that life, Becca. _I won’t._ I made a promise not only to you, but to myself. I have responsibilities, a life here with you, that I love, and I’ve worked so hard for. I won’t give that up, not for anybody, not even _him._ ”

“Maybe he doesn’t think he has any other choices,” she offered.

“Oh please,” he scoffed. “You know Steve as well as I do. You know no one can make him a do a damned thing, even if it’s for his own good, unless he wants to.”

She could not deny that; it was the truth. Yet still, none of this was sitting right with her.

“But Bucky, you…you loved him,” she whispered. “You never stopped.”

“So?” he said again. “It still doesn’t change things.”

“What if he comes looking for us?” she tried a different tact.

“He won’t.” On this Bucky sounded certain. “He thinks I’m dead, remember? And he won’t come looking for you, no offense. He may have loved you too, but you know as well as I do, for as brave as he is, he has a tendency to dig his head in the sand about his own feelings unless someone shoves them down his throat.”

_He’s not the only one_ , she almost said. But he wasn’t wrong either. She remembered how Steve reacted after his mother died, locking himself away. Bucky had been the one to kick open his door and pour an entire bottle of whiskey down his throat before Steve finally broke down about it and cried, and only in front of Bucky. She wondered if booze would help now, but then remembered due to _Formula 798F_ Bucky could no longer get drunk. She assumed it would be the same for Steve.

“Are you – are you absolutely sure, Bucky? That this is what you want?” she had to ask one last time.

“I am,” he said, his features softening. “I know you don’t understand, but it’s my decision. Please respect that. I’m begging you.”

“All right,” she agreed. So much of their time together focused on rebuilding Bucky’s autonomy, his right to choose. Just because she disagreed did not mean she had the right to take that choice away from him.

“Thank you,” he smiled his big brother smile at her, reaching for the remote and turning off the television.

“You’re welcome.”

As she watched him walk into the kitchen, she could not help but shake her head. He was wrong, he was so wrong. Eventually Steve was going to pull his head out of the sand and come looking for her; she _knew_ that, better than she knew the backs of her own hands. All they had to was wait, time would take care of the rest.

***

Except it wouldn’t. Because in the fall of that year, theirs finally ran out.

***

**October**

In October, there came a day that was the hardest one of all, harder than all of the hard ones that had come before.

But not for her.

“Will you excuse us for just a moment, Dr. Keller? I need to talk to my grandson.”

“Of course, Mrs. Proctor. Take all the time you need.”

The door clicked quietly shut as her physician exited the consulting room, leaving her and Bucky alone. From how Bucky stood, rigid and straight backed in the corner, his hands clenched into fists, she knew this was not going to be an easy conversation. But it was one they needed to have.

“Bucky,” she said, reaching for him, and even that simple gesture took a lot of effort, too much effort, so much more than it had a mere few months ago.

“No,” he shook his head, taking another step back, wedging himself even farther into the corner. “No, no, no.”

“Bucky, look at me. Please honey, just look at me.”

“No,” he implored, refusing to meet her eyes. “No. Please don’t make me agree to this, Becca, please. I’m begging you.”

“Oh Bucky, I’m so sorry.” This time though, when she held out her arms, he came. But he didn’t embrace her; instead he fell to his knees, burying his face into her lap, his arms wrapping around her waist.

Even worse, if there could be a worse, were his sobs. They had shared the last twelve years of their lives together, working on his recovery, trying their best to undo all the damage HYDRA had done. Throughout it all, Bucky had been so brave, fighting for his freedom every step of the way. But never, not once, throughout it all, had she ever seen him cry, not like this.

And now here he was, curled in her lap, her big strong brother, sobbing in choked gasps, repeating the words _No_ and _Please_ over and over, again and again, his entire body shaking.

“Oh love, I am so, so sorry,” she tried to soothe him, running her fingers through his hair. “I know this hurts, I know. I know. But there’s nothing we can do. Not even you.”

“No,” he whimpered, burrowing deeper into her lap. She would have done anything, given anything, to spare him this pain, but there was nothing anyone could do, no matter how hard they may have wished it. All she could do was hold him close and let him cry, his tears staining her lap like blood.

It took what felt like forever for his tears to run dry and his body to stop trembling, while she cooed softly and pet his hair. She gave him a few more minutes after that, before she cupped his cheeks in her hands and lifted his face.

“There you are,” she smiled at him, wiping his tears away with her thumbs. He sniffed and tried to turn away. “No, no, no. None of that now, you need to look at me.” She would have done anything to see his scowl, but what she got was wide, bloodshot eyes, drowning in sorrow.

“I’m dying, Bucky,” she said, because they did not lie to each other, and they could not afford to start, didn’t have enough time left to.

Cancer.

It was such a simple yet horrible word. But that was the diagnosis. After months of pain and tiring way too quickly, even for someone her age, they went to her doctor for a new round of tests, and the results of the bloodwork had not been good. They discussed their options, done research of their own, but given her advanced age, the side effects of any treatment they chose would be worse than the disease itself, with no guarantee of success.

The only option at this point was hospice care, to be conducted at home, focusing on pain management and quality of life. That, and the _Do Not Resuscitate_ order they drove to Dr. Keller’s clinic to sign, the reason for Bucky’s tears.

“You can’t leave me Becca, you can’t,” he begged. “You’re all I have left, and I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.”

“We don’t have a choice. Not in this,” was all she could say. “And you’re going to be fine – No, don’t you shake your head at me, you will. It’s going to hurt, and I’m so sorry for that, but you’re the strongest person I’ve ever known, and you’ll learn how to live with it.”

“No, I won’t, not this. I can’t,” he refused, as stubborn as the little boy he had once been.

“You can, and you will.” She kissed his forehead, then lowered her hands, slouching back into the couch. He was not going to like what she said next, but she still needed to say it.

“I’m tired, Bucky,” she sighed. “I’ve lived a good long life, better than most, and the last ten years have been happier than all the ones that came before. But I’m tired, and everything hurts. So I’m asking this of you, even though I know it’s hard, because you’re the only one who loves me enough to do it. You’re my big brother, and you’ve always looked after me. Please don’t stop now.”

There were more tears after that, but eventually, because he was her big brother, he agreed.

The mood was somber, and Bucky stoic by the time Dr. Keller finished explaining the paperwork, but Bucky signed all the forms, granting him the power of attorney, and last but not least, agreeing to the DNR order.

“I know this hasn’t been an easy day for either of you,” Dr Keller said once everything was signed in triplicate. “But there are still a few items we should go over, that will make things a little easier. Namely, some dietary recommendations –“

“I want bacon, for every meal,” she interrupted.

“While tempting to give in to an elderly relative’s request, that might be a little hard on her stomach,” Dr. Keller spoke over her.

“I’m ninety-two, not dead yet. And I am sitting right here, you know.”

“If she wants bacon, I’m giving her bacon.” And there was Bucky’s scowl, returned like a long, lost friend. “Anything she wants, she gets.”

“Damn straight,” she huffed.

“Right,” Dr. Keller hedged. “Well then, there’s also some physical limitations you’ll need to take into consideration –“

“We’re going on a cruise to the Caribbean for the holidays. I’ve always wanted to see the tropics, and my grandson promised to take me.”

“You sure you’re going to be up for that?” Bucky asked.

“Just try and stop me,” she lifted her chin. “I want to wear a big hat, the biggest one you can find, and sunglasses, while drinking margaritas on the deck. I need to work on my tan.”

“You heard my grandmother, doctor, we’re going on a cruise. She needs to work on her tan.”

“Right,” Dr. Keller sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	22. 2013 - Rebecca

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **points to newly added tags** 
> 
> So I just updated the tags for this story, because after the previous chapter I think it's pretty obvious what's going to happen. It does happen here and I wanted to give everyone a fair warning in case you didn't want to read it. But this was the scene that inspired this entire story and if you do read it, I hope you feel I did it justice.
> 
> That said, there is something in the first section that comes into play later on you should probably read. But if you don't want to know anymore than that, you should stop after the line "And hurry, we don't have much time until Jacob gets back."
> 
> **hugs**

**2013**

**Rebecca**

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright?” Bucky asked for what must have been the fifteenth time.

“Why? Do you think aliens are going to attack again while you’re getting our groceries?” she shot back.

“I don’t know, they might,” he grumbled.

“Even if they do, Flora’s here with me. Have you seen her with a needle? I’m sure she’ll keep me safe.”

“I’ll do my best,” Flora, her visiting nurse, smiled.

“You’re not funny, you know,” Bucky strode back into the room and bussed her cheek with a kiss.

“I’m hilarious,” she pushed him away. “Now go. And try to take at least two hours this time. Lord knows you need the break.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he ignored her. “Do you need me to pick you anything up from the store, Miss Flora?”

“That’s very kind of you, Jacob, but I’m fine.”

“Right,” Bucky straightened. “I have my cell on me –“

“Yes, I know,” she cut him off.

“Call me if anything happens.”

“We will,” she shooed him away. “Now go. Maybe spend a few minutes flirting with that Arthur boy while you’re there. I saw the way he was looking at you that last time.”

“You’re not funny,” he called back. “And besides, he’s been living with his boyfriend Em for the past three years.”

“So, they can share!” she managed to get out just before the door slammed shut. Once the reverberations faded, she sighed, shaking her head. “He’s going to be back in less than half an hour, the idiot.”

“You’re his grandmother, and he worries,” Flora said, opening her bag and pulling out a blood pressure cuff. She was a kind woman, and very good at her job. Bucky was resistant to the idea at first, but after some determined convincing, and a full background check, once they returned from their cruise, he agreed to hire her on. Three times a week Flora visited their house, to check on her overall condition and make any adjustments to her pain medications. Even more importantly, it allowed Bucky a chance to take a break from his role as her primary caregiver, one she could see he desperately needed, although he would never admit it. “Let him. He loves you.”

“He’s a good boy,” she murmured, pulling her gaze away from the door. “Always putting everyone else’s needs above his own, ever since he was a child.”

“You’re very lucky then,” Flora adjusted the cuff around her arm.

“I know I am,” she admitted. “I just worry, that’s all.”

Flora hummed, and then nodded, removing the cuff. “Blood pressure looks good.”

“Of course it does,” she smiled. “But never mind that, we don’t have much time.”

“Excuse me?” Flora asked. “Time for what?”

“Can you keep a secret, Flora?”

“You know I’m required by law to keep anything you tell me confidential,” Flora stated.

“Yes, yes, I know, but it’s nothing like that,” she insisted. “It’s just I need to ask you for a favor, and you’re the only one who can do it.”

“And you can’t ask Jacob? You know that boy would do anything for you.” Flora sounded suspicious.

“No, I can’t,” she shook her head. “This is the one thing I can’t ask him to do. And it’s important you don’t tell him. He’d never allow it if he knew, but it needs to be done.”

“If you say so,” Flora said.

“It’s nothing dangerous, although you’re probably going to think I’m crazy, but you’re the only one I can trust with this.”

“All right,” Flora finally agreed. “If you’re sure.”

“Thank you,” she smiled at her. “Now, help me up. There’s something in my bedroom I need to give you. And hurry, we don’t have much time before Jacob gets back.”

***

Then there finally came a day that was not hard or easy.

It was simply the last one.

She remembered hearing, somewhere over the years, that each person was granted a million heartbeats in their lifetime; no more, no less. When she opened her eyes that morning, she knew her countdown was coming to its end.

_Thump-thump-thump…_

There was a quiet tap on her door, and when she turned her head, Bucky was slipping into her bedroom. Somehow, whether due to his enhanced senses, an instinct, or simply because they were that attuned to each other after all these years, he always knew the instant she woke up, appearing at her side in less than thirty seconds to check on her.

“Hey,” he said softly, as he drew closer. “Morning you.” He looked so sweet in the predawn light, his hair down, his smile sincere. She was so happy she was being given the chance to see him like this, even if it was the last time.

“Today, I think,” she said, because he needed to know.

_Thump-thump-thump..._

He was brave and strong, her brother, and he took it well.

“OK,” he nodded, that smile still on his face. “What do you want to do?”

“First, I want you to get this damned thing off my face,” she rasped, Bucky’s hands already unhooking the nasal cannula from her ears. “Then I want bacon, and Irish coffee for breakfast, light on the coffee. And I want to eat it outside, on the porch swing, so we can watch the sunrise, like we always do.”

“What dress do you want to wear?” he asked, heading to her closet.

“The purple one,” she exhaled. “The one I wore when we visited the Eifel Tower. It matches our streaks.”

“And your hair?” he asked, returning with the requested dress in hand.

“A French braid, if you please.”

“Anything you want, Becca-Bee.”

_Thump-thump-thump…_

He was so gentle with her, patient and considerate. The past few months had not been easy for either of them, but especially not for him. He cooked, cleaned and read books to her. He administered her medications when she needed them, washed and brushed her hair, and made sure her body was clean. He even went so far as to change her adult diapers, which embarrassed her, and when she complained about it, he merely shrugged and said, “I used to do this for you when you were a baby too. I didn’t mind it then, and I don’t mind it now.”

“Not exactly what you signed up for though, is it?”

“I’m your big brother, Becca-Bee. It’s my privilege to take care of you.”

For him it truly was, and he performed every task asked of him without a single word of protest. Even these last ones, especially these last ones, braiding her hair and zipping the back of her dress closed, lifting her into his arms once he was done and carrying her to their swing, where he made sure she had plenty of blankets before he retreated to the kitchen to prepare her breakfast.

The leaves were a mosaic of red and gold, the smell of autumn crisp and sharp in the air. She was glad she got to see it, got to enjoy it one last time. Her mind had not been the clearest these past few days. At one point, she could have sworn she saw Bobbi sitting next to her pillow, as handsome as ever, his hands in her hair, telling her not to worry. When she reached for him, he disappeared, only to be replaced by Bucky.

Another time, it was their mother she saw when she opened her eyes, dressed in her Sunday best, leaning over the back of Bucky’s shoulder while he read from his seat at the foot of her bed. When her mother looked up, there were tears on her cheeks, but also a smile on her face.

_‘Thank you, my littlest one, you did so good. You brought him home. Now it’s your turn.’_

When she blinked, their mother was gone, her smile melting away into Bucky’s.

_Thump-thump-thump…_

“Here you go,” Bucky said, carefully setting a tray with their breakfast on it between them. The coffee barely had any coffee in it, and she welcomed the burn at the back of her throat, so much better than the aches and burns plaguing her body for the past few months. The bacon was salty and perfectly crisp, just the way she liked it, and since Bucky had broken it into tiny pieces, she was able to finish two entire strips before her stomach could protest. Then Bucky placed the tray on the floor, and moved closer so he could wrap his arm around her shoulders.

_Thump-thump-thump…_

“I need you to promise me something,” she said, curling her fingers around his.

“You know all you have to do is ask. I’ll do anything for you.”

The last few weeks had been busy ones, for all they’d been quiet, with so many details they needed to attend to. She transferred ownership of the house and the rest of her savings to his name. It wasn’t much at this point, but it was a nice little nest egg. They discussed what was to be done with her belongings, and her funeral arrangements, Bucky agreeing to everything she asked. There was just this one last thing, and she needed to say it while she still could, would never rest until she did.

“Be happy,” she told, begged, ordered of him.

“Leave it to you to ask for the impossible,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling into a wry grin.

“It’s not impossible Bucky, it’s not.” She tightened her hand around his as much as she was able, given how weak she was. “Mourn me, grieve, cry at my funeral. But don’t let that be the last thing you ever do. You have your whole life ahead of you, it’s time you started living it.”

“How can I possibly do that without you?” he asked her, honestly confused.

“However you want,” she told him. “Travel the world. See the pyramids in Egypt, visit the Taj Mahal. Go camping. Meet new people, make friends. Have sex with lots and lots of women and lots and lots of men. Dance with strangers, then fall in love and dance with that person at your wedding. Go to college like you always wanted to.”

“And study what?”

“Whatever interests you. Marine biology, astronomy, Latin, Greek history, auto-mechanics, belly dancing, whatever makes you happy. There’s a whole world out there for you to explore, and it’s time for you to start. Just don’t do it alone.” She let go of his hand to press hers to his heart, directly above their mother’s wedding and engagement rings.

“And no matter what you decide to do, never forget you’re a pearl, you always were. And pearls are treasures that deserve to be happy. Can you promise me that Bucky? Can you swear it?”

_Thump-thump-thump…_

He laid his hand over hers, holding it against his heart, the life in him strong, steady and true.

“Yeah Becca-Bee. I’ll do it for you.”

“Not for me, for you.”

“For me,” he chuckled softly. “But, because you asked me to.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, all her energy from just a moment ago bleeding out of her with his promise. It was done, her very last task complete. She sighed, lowering her hand, leaning against him, letting him take all her weight, knowing he would.

_Thump-thump-thump…_

“Comfortable?” he asked, kicking out gently so the swing started rocking.

“Hmm,” she hummed, closing her eyes.

“Is there anything you want?”

“Tell me a story,” she murmured.

“What kind of story?”

“A good one.” They spent so much of their lives telling each other stories, her reading ones to him when he first returned, and him to her over the last few years. They had been so many things throughout the course of their time together; friends, confidantes, caretaker and the one being cared for, grandmother and grandson. But they had always been, and always would be brother and sister, and she wanted her big brother to tell her one more story, one last time.

“A good one, huh?” he exhaled. “Right…Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess, with flaming red hair and freckles. She was funny and kind, and made everyone around her smile. But even though she was a princess, the most beautiful princess in the world, she lived a hard life, losing everyone she once loved, including her family, and was all alone.”

“This doesn’t sound like a good story,” she grumbled. “Does it have a happy ending?”

“It does,” he kissed her hair. “Because you see, even though her life had been hard, this princess was brave and strong, and in the end she found a way to save her long lost brother, who was captured by an evil monster, setting him free.”

His voice was a soothing rumble in her ear, as warm as the sunlight on her face, as strong as the princess in his story.

And he was right. The story did have a very happy ending.

_Thump-thump-thump…_

“I’m so tired Bucky,” she whispered once it was done.

“I know you are, Becca-Bee,” he told her. “But it’s OK. You’ve done enough. You can sleep now.”

She thought she may have been in his arms again, safely cradled as he carried her someplace.

“Where’re we going?” she slurred.

“To bed,” the voice said. “Just keep your eyes closed. You’re safe now, it’s time for you to rest.”

“’K…Love you…”

_Thump-thump-thump…_

The last thing Rebecca Barnes-Proctor knew before her heart beat for the very last time, was that her brother’s hand was holding hers, and it was his voice in her ear that said, “Thank you Becca-Bee, for everything. You were the best sister in the world. And I love you too. I always will…Now go to sleep. It’s time.”

_Thump-thump-…thump._


	23. 2015 - Natasha Romanova

**2015**

**Natasha Romanova**

In the end, it was her own fault. She was supposed to be better, smarter than this, and she really should have known better.

But given the shitshow the world turned into over the past year, eventually even she was going to make a mistake.

Fury was in hiding, but since he was partially responsible for the disaster Project Insight ended up turning into, she didn’t blame him for choosing to allow everyone else to think he was dead.

She only wished she could do the same.

The world’s governments were at each other’s throats, as more and more of their leaders were outed as members of HYDRA.

SHIELD no longer existed, but as infected as it turned out to be, that was a good thing, although she was still pissed off about Rumlow. She worked with that fucker for years, and never once suspected he was a traitor.

If that wasn’t enough, someone, somewhere had attempted to recreate the Winter Soldier program, sending an operative to stop them from bringing down the helicarriers.

If there was a silver lining to any of this, it was that Novokov was nothing more than a pale imitation of the original. She had trained with the Soldier, fought hand to hand against him, and if it had been him, things would have turned out so much worse. The original Soldier would have been a challenge even for Steve, and he wouldn’t have walked away from that fight with just a cracked rib and swollen jaw.

Then there was Steve himself, a surprise to all of them. She’d been given his psychological profile, told what to look for, and instructed to assess how he would best be used. But even SHIELD’s top psychologists, _or were they HYDRA’s? Who the hell even knew at this point?,_ underestimated the man, having too much faith in the propaganda they’d all been spoon fed about him their entire lives.

Not only was he strong, his body capable of doing impossible things, wielding his shield in ways making even her gasp in surprise, but intelligent. _Extremely_ intelligent, perceptive and cunning, able to see through almost any facade. He intuited she was meant to be his handler within a week of moving to DC, and knew almost instantly Pierce was not to be trusted, in spite of his carefully constructed reputation. He’d warned Fury about the dangers of the Tesseract, then warned him against Project Insight, and had a right to his anger when his warnings proved justified.

But for all that, perhaps the biggest paradox about him was he was a good man. Willing to forgive honest mistakes and offer friendship when it was most needed. He recognized the goodness in others, and knew how to foster teamwork, with an inherent understanding of how to balance everyone’s strengths. He brought Sam into their inner circle, who ended up being a godsend, and was willing to work with a demigod from another realm. Granted, he didn’t always have the best fashion sense, and was sometimes overwhelmed by the changes in the world since the forties. But he adapted to the new technology quickly enough, and was actually a bit of a troll, especially when dealing with Tony.

She was surprised to discover she considered him a friend, a close one, and they worked well together. Her trust in him was absolute, which was rare, but he more than earned it, and she was glad to fight at his side.

Which was good, because while things had started to settle somewhat, their work was far from over.

Steve was furious HYDRA was still around, after everything he sacrificed to see them destroyed. After they uncovered a hidden panic room on Pierce’s estate, containing information about a new series of enhanced soldiers, to replace the one originally promised to him, Steve grew even angrier. That kind of research was too dangerous to be left unchecked, especially in the hands of HYDRA, and they spent the previous year going from country to country and city to city, discovering and then destroying one HYDRA base after another, while searching for any evidence regarding the program.

Thankfully, or not, depending on how one looked at the situation, it appeared as if Novokov was the only successful test subject. They found the bodies of the five other candidates in an abandoned base in Siberia, sealed in their cryotanks, a bullet in each of their foreheads. She had seen a tank very similar to theirs once, and the memory of it still made her shiver.

She agreed with Steve’s decision to destroy the base. That knowledge was too dangerous, and while they worked, she called in as many favors as she could, cashing in chits she’d been keeping hold of, to obtain even the smallest scraps of information.

What little there was finally arrived, left in a secret drop box on the outskirts of Vienna. She had the envelope in hand, when a call came in from Clint, who needed an extraction from a mission gone bad in Ankara.

“Do you want backup?” Steve immediately offered, because of course he would. It was not that he doubted her ability, he was just a firm believer in never leaving anyone behind.

“No, not this time,” she assured him, handing over the envelope. “This needs a quick in and out, and you’ve got the rest of those files to sort through. I can take care of this. Get back to the States as fast as you can and make sure those stay safe.” She nodded to the additional single box of folders in the moldy corner of their hotel room.

“Be careful, Nat,” he told her. “And call in, once you’re both safe. Hopefully this time there won’t be too many broken bones.”

“Still an optimist even now?” she asked, grabbing her bag.

“No. I just know what you and Clint are capable of whenever you work together,” he grinned.

“We’ll have pizza and beer waiting by the time you get back to DC,” Sam called to her back.

“Pepperoni!” she retorted, thinking that would be that.

So really, it was her own fault. She should have checked that fucking file before she handed it over.

Even worse, she had really been looking forward to that damned pizza.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this week's extra chapter. A new one will go up tomorrow as usual, and in it someone FINALLY makes an appearance of his own. 
> 
> **winks**


	24. 2015 - Steve

**2015**

**Steve**

Despite having an eidetic memory, Steve often thought of his life as a series of blinks.

_Blink,_ and when he looked up from the ground, there was a boy standing there between Hank and Timmie, the two biggest bullies in school, fists raised, telling them to _back off_ , and holding his ground until they actually did.

_Blink again_ , and being dragged to that same boy’s house, because his mom made the best cookies in all of Brooklyn, and being introduced as his new best friend.

_Another blink_ a few years later, and realizing he hadn’t been lied to. Not only did he have a friend, but an entire family who were a bit loud and more boisterous than what he and his mother were used to, but viewed him as one of their own. That boy may have been his only friend, but it didn’t matter, because he proved time and time again he was the absolute best friend anyone could ask for.

_One more blink_ , not too long after that and realizing he wasn’t just a best friend but – _No, not that, he wasn’t going to think about that._

_Yet another blink,_ thinking it was most likely his last one, and emerging from a machine with a brand new body, twice his original size, with a straight spine and none of the pain that had been his only other consistent companion.

_Forcing himself to blink_ , and finally casting off the restrictions placed on him to become Captain America in reality, because there was a rescue needing to take place, and _absolutely nothing_ was going to get in his way.

_Blinking through tears filled eyes_ during a mission in the Alps because that boy, now a man, he lo- _No, not that, he was NEVER going to think about that._

_A final blink,_ because a sacrifice was needed, and he was the only one who could make it, to wake up more than seventy years in the future when by all rights he should be dead.

_Blink,_ aliens attacking New York City.

_Blink,_ being asked to lead a newly formed initiative.

_Blink,_ and discovering the agency he worked for was infested with HYDRA, along with most of the world’s governments, Project Insight the fucking icing on the cake.

_Blink. Blink. Blink._

So many of them, and each a defining moment of his life.

That wasn’t to say everything between those blinks did not matter. His life may have been defined by blinks, but it was also shaded by the experiences in between, some easier than others, but they filled his lines with color. Moving to DC, and coming to eventually trust and befriend Natasha, because in spite of all her initial duplicity, she was a good person, with multiple shades of her own. Reaching out to Sam, who was one of the best people he’d ever known, and gaining yet another solid and true person he would do anything for.

Discovering Peggy was still alive and getting to spend time with her was definitely a darker shade coloring in the lines of his life, but one he was still grateful for none-the-less, since he knew their time was limited.

His first visit had not gone well. He’d been told Peggy was aware he was alive, and looking forward to seeing him. Except when he arrived at her room, bouquet of flowers in hand, she took one look at him, paled, and started screaming, _‘No, no, no more ghosts! No more ghosts! You’re dead, you’re dead, just like he is!’_ before she threw a book at his head with an accuracy only his serum enhanced speed allowed him to dodge.

His second visit, after multiple assurances from the staff he would be welcome, and apologies from Peggy herself, had gone much better. She smiled at him, asked how he was adjusting to his new life, her hand holding his while she happily told him of her own.

During a later visit, he was in the middle of telling her what he thought about working for SHIELD, when her eyes filled with tears and her gaze grew far away, in spite of her hand clenching his.

“We had to make choices, there was too much at stake, and no one was worth the risk. You understand why I had to do it, don’t you darling? I had no other choice, but you understand, don’t you?” she pleaded with him.

“Of course I do, Pegs,” he smiled at her. He was used to this by now, how her mind could sometimes drift in the middle of a conversation, and been instructed by the staff to not contradict her, as it would only confuse and agitate her further.

“I knew you would,” she was openly crying now, which was just as heartbreaking as her lapse in memory; the Peggy he remembered would have rather drank poison than allow anyone to see her tears. “He said you wouldn’t, but I knew he was wrong, and you’d understand.”

He didn’t understand, couldn’t possibly understand, but that was the curse of Alzheimer’s. It caused the ones you loved to walk down twisted and darkened paths, while all you could do was try to comfort them as much as possible.

Yet as painful as it was for him, he relished their time together, knowing there wasn’t much left. He wished he could spend more of it with her, but after Project Insight the majority of his time had been spent with Natasha and Sam, searching out and destroying every single HYDRA base they could find, his anger at what became of Peggy’s life’s work fueling him. HYDRA had been busy while he was under the ice, not only infiltrating and corrupting the powers of the world, but pursuing the development of their own super-soldier program. It was disheartening to discover their greatest success came from Howard, at the cost of his life. Howard should have known better; he’d seen for himself what people were willing to do to get their hands on Erskine’s formula. But much like his son, Howard had been obsessive in his pursuit of knowledge and discovery, not thinking of the consequences of that pursuit. Aside from Erskine, geniuses seldom considered the ramifications of their work.

Thankfully Natasha and Sam agreed with him, not needing any convincing to join him in his mission to find any and all information they could on the program. Also thankfully, it appeared as if things were finally winding down. Governments were being restructured, trials held, and from what they could gather there were few, if any, undiscovered HYDRA bases remaining. That did not mean they were gone, but with the major heads cut off the beast was finally bleeding to death. They would keep at it, there was no other option, but after a year of living on the road in one dingy motel room or safehouse after another, it was good to be back on American soil for an undetermined amount of time.

And even Steve could admit, without any of Sam’s pointed commentary, they could all use a break.

“Do we really have to hit those now?” the man himself asked, with a stretch so big Steve heard his spine crack, before glaring at the box on the coffee table. “’Cos this is the first time we’ve been home in months, and I really want a beer and a cheeseburger.”

“Nothing’s stopping you,” Steve grinned at him from the couch.

“Maybe I need to speak more clearly,” Sam kicked at Steve’s ankle with his sock clad foot. “What I meant is, why don’t the two of us head over to O’Malley’s, grab something to eat and watch a game. I hear your boys, the Dodgers, are playing tonight.”

“Oh fuck you, Sam,” Steve growled, earning him a laugh.

“I’m serious though,” Sam said, his posture straightening. “We’ll lock those up, and come back to them in the morning. Even Captain America needs to chill out for a night every once in a while, and I’m really dying for a beer.”

“You go on ahead,” Steve told him. “I’m just going to take a quick look, see if there’s anything we need to pass on to Maria, and then I’m going to call it a night.”

“Steve,” Sam admonished.

“Maybe go for a run,” Steve continued. “It’s been a while, and it’ll be nice not to have to hold back.”

“You and your motherfucking runs,” Sam hissed at him. It was Steve’s turn to laugh.

“Go,” Steve insisted, still smiling. “Have fun. I can handle this.”

“If you’re sure…” Sam hedged, but he was making his way toward his shoes and coatrack near the door.

“Go,” Steve repeated. “Get outta here. You need that beer. And in spite of all outward appearances, even Captain America can get tired of looking at your ugly mug.”

“Uh-huh. See if I bring you back any curly fries,” Sam called, pocketing his keys.

“Make it three orders with extra dipping sauce. The ranch one, that stuff’s amazing,” Steve said to the already closed door.

“I’m bringing you back ketchup and you’ll like it,” Sam mumbled, knowing Steve would hear, as his footsteps echoed down the hall. Steve laughed again, before stretching his own back, and turned his attention to the box.

Natasha’s envelope was still on top when he removed the lid, looking a bit battered but better than the rest of the files, whose dusty and moldy smell was irritating enough to make even him sneeze. He really had no intentions of delving too deeply into any of it, just a quick scan to make sure there were no other Novokovs running loose they needed to be on the lookout for. He decided to start there, knowing Natasha called in favors to obtain the contents and those would likely be more relevant than anything else in the box. Plus it was thin, and that definitely made it more appealing to his tired eyes.

He picked it up, tore off the top, pulled out the manilla folder inside, opened the cover and…

_Blink…_

There was no sound in the room, not even that of his heart beating as he stared at a photograph of a face he had not seen anywhere other than the grainy displays in the Smithsonian.

_Blink…_

Two photographs. There were two photographs in the file.

One of a man with long, ragged hair, his eyes closed as if he were asleep, taken through a thick layer of glass, frost lining its grainy edges.

And a second one of the same man, this time in his service uniform, smiling proudly at the camera, his enlistment form attached. Steve did not need to read the file to know what it said, to learn the man’s identity, because it was…

It was…

_No, no, NO, don’t think about that, NEVER think about that!_

But he couldn’t not, because it was Bucky’s face in those photos, perfectly still, but more vivid and real than he’d been in far too long, except for his nightmares.

_Blink…_

And Steve’s world went white.

***

When he blinked again, returning from a horrible train ride, a scream and his hand coming back empty, he would have believed a thousand years passed. But a quick glance at his cell resting on the coffee table told him it was only ten minutes, his fingers still clinging to the file, which was rattling from the way his hands shook.

He took a deep breath, another glance at the photos, then flipped through the rest of the pages. Most of it was in Russian, and the majority of that redacted, except for one other document clipped to the inside cover. Frustrated, terrified, doubting his own sanity, he grabbed his StarkPhone and activated the JARVIS interface, asking for a translation.

Forty minutes later, after rereading everything for the third time, he almost wished he hadn’t. Natasha had informed them, during the course of their search, there was an original Soldier that HYDRA’s program grew from. Very little, if anything, was known about that first operative except for how deadly he was. But they didn’t need this file, bare bones as it was, to learn everything there was to know about him. Steve could have told them himself.

Deadly with a rifle and an uncanny ability to hit any target, yes. Capable of unbelievable stealth and focus while on a mission, yes. Extremely intelligent and able to adapt to the slightest changes in circumstances, yes. But none of that, _none of that,_ was even a fraction of who Bucky was.

Funny, kind, compassionate, with a low tolerance for bullshit, but a laugh that was infectious. An undeniable mother-hen who always balanced that aspect of his personality with respect. Loyal like none other, and absolutely devoted to his family and friends. The only one, aside from Steve’s mother, who never once gave up on him, sacrificing so many of his own hopes and dreams so there was always enough food on the table and medicines to get Steve through his latest bout of influenza. A gap-toothed and knobby kneed boy who grew into a beautiful man who was the love of Steve’s life, until he fell from a train, slipping through Steve’s fingers to his death.

Except he hadn’t.

According to the file, he had been recovered from the chasm that should have been his tomb, somehow still alive, and turned into _Case Study 53_ , the only surviving subject of Armin Zola’s obsessive attempts to recreate Erskine’s serum.

Steve, along with the rest of the Howling Commandos, wanted to go back, search for his body so his family would have something to bury. Both Peggy and Phillips had been adamantly against it, flatly stating it was a waste of resources, chances were nearly impossible of locating his exact position, and there was a war going on they needed to focus on. In his grief, Steve conceded, and because he did, Bucky spent more than fifty years as a victim being viciously brutalized by HYDRA.

The file was thin but there was more than enough information to know Bucky suffered horribly. There were references to repeated attempts at brainwashing, which were decreed unnecessary with the implementation of electric stimulus to certain areas of the brain. A cryostasis procedure performed to keep the Asset _(BuckyBuckyBucky)_ in storage until it _(Bucky)_ was needed, along with a picture of the chamber used. The training it _(Bucky)_ received, exceeding expectations, especially once what was left of Case Study 53’s _(Bucky’s)_ left arm was replaced by a metal prosthetic performed while the subject _(Bucky)_ was awake to ensure optimal neural connectivity. A list of missions, mostly redacted, with a one-hundred percent success rate, which pleased its _(Bucky’s)_ torturers, and a brief reference to the implementation of additional failsafes added to ensure their Asset’s _(Bucky’s)_ compliance.

If only Steve had gone back for him, he would have recovered not a body, but Bucky still alive somehow, saving him from over half a century of endless suffering.

There had been a mission only a few months after the Project Insight disaster, when they’d uncovered the location of a HYDRA base on the outskirts of Katowice too big for just the three of them to take on, so they called in Tony, Bruce and Clint for assistance. Once they captured the few remaining operatives still there, they explored the basement levels where they discovered a room with a human-sized refrigeration chamber and a chair, with brackets for the arms and legs and a crown. Within five minutes of examining it, Bruce was looking grey and Tony actually turned a bit green, so disgusted with what they found they decided both items needed to be destroyed instead of studied.

“That bad?” Steve remembered asking, surprised there was anything vile enough to overwhelm their inherent curiosity.

“That bad,” Bruce grimaced, while Tony charged his repulsors.

“I just hope whoever they tested this on is dead, because that would be a mercy. Now get out of here, I’m blowing this place to kingdom come. I fucking hate HYDRA,” was Tony’s response.

But their victim wasn’t dead.

Or at least not yet, according to the file.

That was what the page clipped to the front of the folder revealed, the only one of two in English. It was an autopsy report from September, 2005, regarding a charred skeleton recovered from a destroyed HYDRA base. Cause of death was listed as a perforating gunshot wound originating at the occipital bone of the skull. Other notable markers were the missing left arm, from the medial clavicle outward, along with notable damage to the thoracic and cervical vertebrae, consistent with a rapid surgical removal of a neural interface. There were no other surviving identifiable marks, yet the report, a photocopy of the original, confirmed the termination of the Asset _(Bucky)_ signed off by an Agent N. Romanova.

No more, no less, but more than enough.

When Steve was finally able to lift his eyes from the grimoire of Bucky’s life and ultimate death, his pulse was racing and the room spinning. Had it been pre-serum, he would have sworn he was having an asthma attack. Except had it been pre-serum, Bucky would have pressed his chest to Steve’s back, calmly breathing in and out, urging Steve to do the same, while he lit and held one of Steve’s asthma cigarettes to his lips, ordering Steve to take a hit, then another, and another, until Steve could finally breathe again. With one last reassuring grip to his shoulder, he would have stepped around Steve so they were facing each other, and with a smile both cocky and concerned say, “Fuck that asthma, right?”

But Bucky wasn’t here, and Steve’s lungs worked better than anyone’s in the world. The room was still spinning, and he still couldn’t breathe, but he knew he needed to get out of there before the entire world closed in on him.

He grabbed the folder, his jacket, and his go bag, still packed, and was out the door and on his bike in less than two minutes.

Somewhere between Philadelphia and New York City, he pulled over to the side of the Jersey Turnpike and puked his guts out.

Fifteen minutes after that, he was checking into the nearest roadside motel he could find. He sent a quick text to Sam, saying _Decided to take your advice. Taking a break for a few days. All OK, be back soon,_ before he collapsed on the stale comforter and wished for his mother like hadn’t in over eighty years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	25. 2015 - Steve (Cont'd...)

“I want to thank you again for agreeing to meet with me, especially on such short notice.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Captain Rogers, it’s quite the honor to have you in my home,” Flora Alvarado said, placing a cup of coffee next to the plate of cookies already waiting in the center of her kitchen table. She was a handsome woman in her mid to late fifties, with chin length salt and pepper hair, doe-shaped nearly black eyes, deeply tanned skin and a soft figure. She had a nice smile, and moved with a quiet and steady grace that was soothing as she bustled about her small kitchen, doing her best to make him comfortable.

“None-the-less, I appreciate it,” Steve said, taking a sip of his coffee; it was strong and thick, with a bit of a kick to it, and he was grateful for the distraction, given he knew this conversation was not going to be an easy one. “And please, call me Steve.”

After his heart stopped trying to beat its way out of his chest, and his stomach finished emptying what little was left in it, he gripped the frayed and tattered edges of his reasoning together, and attempted to decide what to do next. Nothing had changed, Bucky was still dead, except _everything_ had, and he now needed to figure out where to go from here. It took him longer than he ever would admit to decide, but he eventually picked up his phone and ignoring the text from Sam, asked JARVIS to provide him with as much information as he could on the Barnes family.

He'd been provided dossiers on the rest of his former teammates upon his reawakening, relieved to discover they all lived long and what seemed to be fulfilling lives. There had not been any information on the Barnes in the packet, and he hadn’t asked. In those first few weeks, then months, he couldn’t think about Bucky without a white static consuming his brain. If anyone asked, he could have said he became so involved in his work there simply wasn’t time. But that would have been a lie.

The truth was, he was a coward and knew he wouldn’t be able to face Bucky’s sisters and explain to them he was the reason their brother was dead. Bucky had been his family’s beloved son, and Steve let him slip through his fingers. He would never be able to look any of them in the eye, knowing all their scorn and derision was well deserved.

He also knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his deepest, darkest secret from them, one Bucky hadn’t even known, and that would only make it worse.

_I loved him, and I couldn’t save him. When he died, I died too. He should be the one sitting here instead of me, and I am so, so sorry for that._

Except Bucky hadn’t died, not then, and Steve was once again too late.

JARVIS was quick and unbelievably efficient. By the time Steve returned from the quick shower he took to wash the sweat and sick from his skin, there was a data file waiting for him on his phone’s screen. He opened it with trembling hands, and as he read through the information felt what little was left of his heart break into even tinier pieces.

Time had not been kind to the Barnes family, and with the exception of a single grandson, no one from the original clan was still alive. Rebecca lived the longest, making it to just a few weeks past her ninety-third birthday, before finally dying almost exactly a year before the Project Insight disaster. From what he read, her life had not been easy, losing her only son and his wife to a car accident a few years before her husband passed away, and his heart ached for her.

She’d been such a vibrant spirit, Bucky’s youngest sister, and Bucky adored her. The two of them were unbelievably close, Bucky both protective and indulgent, and Becca, while fiercely independent, never hiding the fact she worshipped the ground her big brother walked on. So many of his own memories of Bucky included Becca, and she was yet another gift Bucky gave him, among the millions; a younger sister of his own to tease and banter with, who loved to join forces with him and do the same to Bucky. If he only pulled his head out of his ass sooner, he would have gotten a chance to see her again, had a year to spend time with her, but his cowardice ruined even that. He didn’t know why he was here, except for the undeniable need to reassure himself she’d been well taken care of in her last days. It was what Bucky would have wanted, and the least he could do.

“All right, Steve,” Flora gifted him with another one of her smiles. “I believe you wanted to ask me about Mrs. Proctor?”

“Yes,” Steve put down his coffee cup. “You were her caretaker, right? At the – at the very end?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I was her visiting nurse. Three times a week I would check in on her to make sure she was doing all right and didn’t need any adjustments to her medications, but Jacob was her primary caretaker.”

“He’s her grandson, right?” He had debated reaching out to Jacob, the only Barnes descendant still alive, but in the end decided against it. They had never met, Jacob hadn’t even known Bucky, and Steve didn’t want to cause their family, what little was left of it, any additional pain. He only wanted to know if Becca had been happy in her last days, so he reached out to the home healthcare assistant listed in the file JARVIS provided. She would be more than able to answer any of his questions.

“Yes,” Flora’s smile grew even warmer. “When my agency originally contacted me, it was as a fulltime live in assistant, but after our first interview, it quickly became obvious I wouldn’t be needed that way. They were unbelievably close, and Jacob took excellent care of her.”

“He did?” That was a relief, although not surprising. For all that the Barnes used to quarrel and shout, to anyone observing it was obvious how much they loved each other, their bonds to one another a hallmark of their family.

“Oh yes,” Flora assured him. “He did everything for her. He cooked and cleaned all without complaint, and if she ever wanted or needed something, all she had to do was ask and he would get it for her. He was even better than me at changing her IVs at the end, and I have over thirty years of experience. And there was never a single sign of abuse.”

“Abuse?” he frowned.

“That’s also part of my job, to check for signs of elderly abuse. It doesn’t happen often, but more than anyone wants to admit,” Flora sighed, leaning back in her chair. “And I’m required by law to report it, if I ever see it. But there were never any signs. Quite honestly, she was probably the best looked after patient I’ve ever had.”

“Was she,” Steve paused to swallow, to ask the question he drove all the way to Landing to ask, “was she happy? In the end?”

“She was in a lot of pain,” Flora stated calmly. But then again, she was a hospice care nurse, not an easy career, and it was her job to face hard truths every day. “But like I said, Jacob was with her, and he could always make her smile.” She must have been able to see the pain on his own face, so she reached out and laid her hand over his.

“I know it’s not easy to hear that about someone you were close to, but believe me, he took excellent care of her. Whenever I visited, the two of them were usually in the middle of watching an old movie, one with Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire most of the time.”

“Really?” Steve couldn’t help his relieved laugh. Bucky had loved Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, and it pleased him to know Becca passed that love on to her grandson.

“Yes really,” Flora patted his wrist before picking up her own cup of coffee and taking a sip. “They used to spend hours watching them, and on one of her good days, they were even dancing when I stopped by. Slow, because they had to be careful, but still dancing and laughing.”

“He sounds like a great guy.”

“He is,” she nodded. “And like I said, he was crazy about her. He took her on a cruise their last Christmas together. Her doctor was against it, but she was stubborn, they both were, and I know they had a great time. From the picture she showed me, their hair was bubblegum pink for that.”

“What?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“She had beautiful long hair, even at the very end, but she hated that it had gone completely white. So every couple of months Jacob would dye it for her, and then do his own so they matched,” Flora explained.

“Really?” The more he heard, the more the knot of worry and regret loosened in his chest.

“They were grandmother and grandson, but really, they were more like best friends,” Flora grinned at him. “In fact, I don’t think I ever once heard him call her grandma. It was Becca-Bee instead.”

“Really?” Steve paused with his coffee cup halfway to his lips. Bucky used to call Becca his Becca-Bee; it was his personal nickname for her, and Becca only ever let him use it. The one time Steve tried as a joke, she turned and pinched him in the arm, hard enough to bruise. But then again, maybe that was Becca’s way of keeping Bucky’s memory alive.

“Hmm,” Flora hummed softly, not noticing his hesitancy. “It was adorable.”

“But she was happy?” He didn’t know why, but he needed to ask one more time, just to be sure. Flora stared at him, her dark eyes perceptive and knowing, holding his gaze steady while she considered her answer.

“For the most part, yes,” she finally said. “But I know she was worried about what Jacob was going to do after she died.”

“Why?”

“From my understanding, he’d gone through a bit of a rough time before he came to live with her. They never really said much about it, for all that they were both well-loved in the community, they were pretty private people. But I know his parents were killed in a car accident, and he struggled for a few years before he sought her out. I don’t know if it was drugs or if he fell in with the wrong group of people, but she helped him get back on his feet. She became his entire world after that, never dating anyone, even though he was a young man, and very good looking.

“He devoted all his time to her, and she worried her death was going to hit him hard. She even told me not to be surprised if he disappeared after she died, to expect it, and she was right. Less than a week after her funeral, he was gone.”

“He left? Just like that?” Steve frowned.

“Uh-hm,” she nodded.

“What about the house? Did he put it up for sale?” Steve asked.

“Before he left, he asked if I knew anyone who would be interested in looking after it. My son Jose is going to college, and I told him he could use the extra money. He pays him to mow the lawn, clean the gutters, and make sure none of the pipes have burst, but he hasn’t been back since.”

_Huh._

“He really took her death hard, didn’t he?”

“He did,” Flora said softly. “From what he told me, he was holding her hand when she died.”

_Oh Jesus._ But at least Becca hadn’t died alone, had taken her last breath with someone she loved and who loved her by her side. As painful as it was to think about, it was more than he dared to hope for. More than Bucky had gotten. It would have to do.

“Anyway, Flora, I want to thank you for agreeing to speak with me.” There was nothing left to be gained, and it was time for him to leave. “You must have been surprised when I called, and you’ve been –“

“Oh no, I knew you were going to call,” Flora interrupted.

“What?”

“Mrs. Proctor told me you would,” Flora continued with a grin. “I admit, I didn’t believe her at first, but she was a sharp one, right up until the very end.”

“She knew I was going to call?”

“Mm-hm,” Flora rose from her chair. “In fact, she gave me something to give you. If you’ll excuse me for just a moment, I’ll go get it.”

“OK…” he said to the already empty room. Flora returned within five minutes, carrying a medium sized box, which she set on the table in front of him. “She left this for me?”

Flora nodded as she sat down. “Told me to make sure I gave it to you myself. She couldn’t find your address, and didn’t want to send it to SHIELD. Said she couldn’t trust it would get to you unopened if she did.” Which was smart of her, Steve had to admit. Anything sent through SHIELD or even Stark Tower would be thoroughly scanned, its contents double-checked, before it ever reached him. He couldn’t imagine there was anything dangerous in the box, but Steve knew he, along with Becca, held different notions of privacy than the current generation, who lived on their cell phones and posted photos of every meal they ate.

“She was right,” Steve admitted, but Becca had always been a smart cookie. And in a distant part of his mind, he could not help but think she would have gotten along great with Natasha. But only in a distant part; the rest of his attention was focused on the box. Slightly larger than a shoe box, it was constructed from a pale, golden wood, cedar from what he could smell, and polished to a smooth shine. It appeared sturdy and well-made, with a simple, elegant construction. Its most striking feature was the lid, upon which was engraved a highly detailed but carefully rendered bumblebee, caught midflight. Steve was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude; here was something from the girl he once loved like a sister, whose brother was the love of his life. It was a link, a tangible one he could hold in his hands, when there was so little left of his past for him to cling to.

“It’s beautiful,” he managed around the lump in his throat.

“Jacob made it for her,” Flora explained.

“He did?”

“He was a bit of a carpenter,” she went on after another sip of her coffee, “very handy around the house. I know he built their bookshelves, and he fixed my coffee table when I told him it was wobbling. But mostly he liked to whittle, I think it’s called? If Mrs. Proctor was asleep when I arrived, he was either reading or working on some piece of wood in his hands. He used to carve these little figurines, or more boxes like that one. He liked to give them as gifts to people, I even have one of a flower he gave me on my birthday a few months before Mrs. Proctor died. It’s quite lovely.”

The more Flora spoke, the more his curiosity was piqued in regard to Rebecca’s grandson. Bucky also liked to whittle; he’d learned at George’s knee, and carried the hobby with him into adulthood. During the war, on nights when Bucky couldn’t sleep, Steve would turn over and find him sitting up in his bedroll, knife in hand working over a piece of wood. And just like Jacob, Bucky enjoyed carving small figurines which he would then give out as gifts. To the Howlies mostly, and sometimes to children in the villages they entered. He even gave one to Phillips once, a gruff faced bull chomping on a cigar, and Steve never heard his former CO laugh as hard as he did when first saw it, displaying it proudly on his desk ever after. Bucky had also grown increasingly fascinated by the boxes with the hidden compartments they used to transport secret messages, eventually crafting some of his own, which came in handy on more than one occasion. It seemed as if Jacob had a lot in common with his dead great uncle, a bit of Bucky’s spark living on in Becca’s grandson. That was both simultaneously a relief and an aching pain deep beneath his breastbone.

“She also wanted me to pass on a message to you,” Flora’s voice cut through Steve’s reverie.

“She did?” he asked, looking up from the box he hadn’t realized he was stroking.

“She was very specific about it. Made me repeat it ten times to make sure I had it right.” There was an amusement in Flora’s eyes, telling Steve that in spite of why they met, Flora had liked Becca. It was another spark of relief, desperately needed after the past few days of swirling darkness and regret.

“She said to tell you to forgive yourself for not coming sooner,” Flora began. “You couldn’t have known what was going to happen, no one does. She forgave you and wanted you to forgive yourself.” Steve could not help the dry chuckle that escaped him hearing that. At the sound, Flora smile grew wider. “She also said to have faith and don’t give up. It won’t be easy, but as long as you don’t give up, it will be all right in the end.”

“She…she said that?” he asked.

“Word for word,” Flora confirmed.

“I…” Steve paused to swallow for a second time. The message was so Rebecca. Determined and straightforward, right up until the end, as if she knew he would need to hear those very words, and had reached back from beyond the grave to gift him with one last kindness. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, Captain Rogers.” Flora was kind too; it seemed as if, despite all she had lost, Becca managed to surround herself with kind people at the end.

“Anyway, I’ve taken up enough of your time,” Steve rose from his chair. “I should let you get on with your day.”

“It was no bother at all,” Flora was also rising to her feet. “If you give me just a sec, I’ll get a bag for you to carry that home in.”

“Thank you,” Steve said for what must have been the millionth time. “You have my number. If there’s anything I could ever do for you…”

“Actually,” this time Flora’s smile was foxlike, “I wouldn’t be opposed to an autograph and a picture or two. My children would never forgive me if they found out I had coffee with Captain America and didn’t get at least one selfie with him.”

“Of course,” Steve laughed, and this time it was genuine.

***

That evening, Steve was back in his shabby motel room, sitting on the lumpy bed, Rebecca’s box in his lap. He’d been staring at it for the last half hour, unable to open it for reasons he couldn’t understand. It was just a box after all, and there was nothing inside that could hurt worse than the contents of Natasha’s file.

Yet still, he kept staring at it as if it were Pandora’s Box.

Shaking himself, he took a deep breath and forced his fingers to undo the latch and lift the lid. On the very top, there was a single white envelope, addressed to him. He decided to start there.

_Dear Steve,_ it began in the flowing cursive he seldom saw these days, written by an obviously shaky hand. But it was definitely Becca’s handwriting, and he would have recognized it anywhere.

_If you’re reading this, then I’m dead and you’ve paid a visit to Flora. She’s a good woman, and an excellent nurse, and will have passed on my message. But I know you, Steve Rogers, better than anyone, except for one other person, so I will say it again here._

_Forgive yourself for not coming sooner. I would tell you I have already forgiven you, but there is nothing to forgive. There were things that needed to be done, and you were the only one who could do them. You had also just woken up into a completely new world, and I know that takes some getting used to. I remember how stubborn you are and that you like to blame yourself for everything, but don’t, not for this. It’s never good to dwell on the past, not when the future holds so much promise. Allow yourself to grieve for me if you must, but forgive yourself. I wouldn’t have wanted you to see me how I was at the end anyway._

_That said, in this box you’ll find a few things I thought you’d like to have. The handkerchiefs are from me. I know they’re a bit passé these days, but I still believe a true gentleman should always have a spare handkerchief on hand._

_The rest are a few keepsakes I’ve managed to hold onto all these years. After you shipped out to Europe, Ma and I went to your apartment and cleared it out. Ma donated most of your belongings to a museum after we heard your plane went down, but I thought these items were too personal to be put on display somewhere, and kept them safe. Now that you’re back, it’s long past time they were returned to you. I hope they bring some comfort._

_If you’re wondering, know that I was very happy, even at the end. I had my ups and downs, but if anyone were to ask, I would tell them I lived a good life, filled with more blessings than anyone had a right to, three of them so outstanding they could only be called miracles._

_One was when I heard they discovered your plane and you were still alive. I know it may not feel that way to you at times, but trust me, it was one of the happiest days of my life._

_The second was the day I met my husband, Robert Proctor. It was an even bigger miracle, and no offense Steve, you were my brother in everything but blood, but I loved my Bobbi with all my heart, and we had fifty wonderful years together that I would not give up for anything. Love like ours was is rare, and I cherish every moment we had together._

_My biggest wish for you is that you get to experience that same type of love, and my only regret is that I did not live long enough to see it. But like I told Flora to tell you, have faith and don’t give up. It won’t be easy, but times have changed from back in our youth. As long as you don’t give up, it will be all right in the end. I promise you that._

_Be well Steve. You were the best of the best, not because you became Captain America, but because you were always Steven Grant Rogers. And Steven Grant Rogers deserves to be happy. I know you don’t like being told what to do, but I’m an old woman now, and that means you have to listen to me._

_Forever Your Friend,_

_Becca_

The words were blurry on the page, and he quickly wiped his eyes with his sleeve to keep his tears from staining them. It was so typically Becca, direct, forthright and kind, and he could almost hear her voice as he read the words, not knowing how desperately he needed to hear them.

She bore no resentment to him, like he feared, and lived a good life, filled with blessings, according to her. Three of them so big she called them miracles, although she only listed two in her letter. He frowned, flipping the pages over, searching for a PS or addendum he hadn’t seen. But there was nothing, so he decided to let it go. She had already given him so much, more than he had any right to expect, and there were still the contents of the box for him to look through.

The first thing he saw were the promised handkerchiefs, three of them, made of silk and soft beneath his fingers. As he unfolded them, he saw the delicate embroidery stitched in the corners. One simply bore his initials, SGR. The second was a perfect replica of the Brooklyn Bridge. The last one was a brightly colored duplicate of Coney Island’s Cyclone. Beautiful work, done by a highly skilled hand, and it must have taken her hours to complete. Aunt Winnie had been an amazing embroiderer herself, and Becca’s talent surpassed even hers. It was a lovely gift, one he would treasure forever, and unbelievably generous of Becca to include, so he was extra careful as he refolded them and placed them to the side.

The next few items in the box were things he never thought he would see again, but once again filled his eyes with tears.

His mother’s rosary, carefully wrapped in a piece of tissue paper. They’d never been religious, but his mother carried her rosary everywhere, running her fingers over the small wooden balls like worry beads, until their surface was worn shiny smooth. According to her, it belonged to his grandmother and travelled across the Atlantic when his mother first came to America.

_Oh Becca, thank you,_ he thought, placing a kiss to the cross, swearing he could smell the lingering lemon of his mother’s perfume.

The second item, also wrapped in tissue paper, was his father’s Medal of Honor, the blue of the ribbon faded, but remarkably intact otherwise. He had no memories of the man, but his mother told him story after story about him, his bravery and kindness, proudly telling him how she saw all the best parts of Joseph in him. Something else he thought lost, but returned to him due to Becca’s kindness.

When he untied the small satin pouch containing the third item, turning it over, his mother’s wedding ring fell into the palm of his hand, its metal scuffed and scratched, but exactly as he remembered it. Her fingers had been calloused but strong from her work as a nurse, yet so slender, and the ring wouldn’t even fit past the last knuckle of his pinky when he tried to slip it on. He would need to find a chain for it, so he could wear it over his heart, carrying a piece of both his parents love with him wherever he went.

The final item at the bottom of the box was not wrapped in any tissue paper, and he recognized it as soon as he saw it. His sketchbook, the last one he used before shipping off to Camp LeHigh. It smelled of old paper and lead pencil, and he wondered how Becca managed to find it, when he made certain to carefully hide it beneath a loose floorboard at the back of the closet.

But then again, Becca was the only one to ever know its contents, even if she had only seen a single page, more than enough for her to realize how he felt about her brother. She never said anything about it to anyone, apparently keeping his secret until the day she died. And it was a blessing she’d kept the book in her possession all this time, because if anyone had seen its contents, they would have certainly known how much he loved her brother.

It was filled with sketch after sketch of Bucky, carefully shaded in Steve’s own hand. Bucky drinking coffee in the morning. Bucky’s back as he stood by their stove cooking dinner. The fine boned fingers of Bucky’s hands while he whittled. Bucky’s scowl as he read the evening paper. Bucky’s face, peaceful and at ease as he slept. _Bucky, Bucky, Bucky_ , a love letter without words, his deepest, darkest secret, a longing he would never escape, a cut whose pain was even deeper now he knew what really happened to him.

He wondered what Becca would have thought if she knew the truth. Would she still want him to have this box, or would she have screamed in his face the way he deserved? He was unworthy of this final kindness, although not so unselfish as to not cling to it desperately. She hadn’t known, and while her brother was and always would be a hero, she was spared the knowledge of how much he suffered for that sacrifice.

He put that thought aside for now, put all of it aside, just like he did the sketchbook. It was too much for even his shoulders to bear, and he needed a distraction. He turned back to the box instead, deciding to give it a closer inspection, this handmade gift Jacob deemed worthy enough for the grandmother he was obviously crazy about.

It was a beautiful piece of work, Steve had to admit as he studied it, the engraving on the lid as intricate as Becca’s embroidery. He wondered if Jacob was self-taught, or if he’d gone to school to learn his craft, and whether or not Becca had any influence on his decision to take it up. The lid made no sound and moved smoothly as Steve opened and closed it, and the seams in the corners were nearly invisible. The attention to detail was amazing, rivalling Bucky’s best work, the etching on the cover even reminiscent of his style. Jacob must be quite talented to make this, a piece that would easily last for generations.

Although there was something just the slightest bit off about it, he realized as he held it in his hands. Given how thick the base was, it should be heavier. It was a tiny detail, one he doubted anyone else would notice, but it made him wonder what he was missing.

He gave the box a gentle shake, and that’s when he heard it, a nearly silent rattling, as if it were keeping a secret. Intrigued, he scrutinized the interior a second time, and that’s when he saw it; an almost invisible seam running through the middle of the top of the panel on the right-hand side someone wouldn’t recognize unless they knew to look for it. Wondering if his instincts were correct, he tugged on it, both surprised and not when the wood slid smoothly upward.

Remembering the boxes they used in the war, he flipped it over and slotted it back into place, less surprised this time when there was an almost inaudible click, and a well-hidden drawer popped open at the base, revealing another piece of paper, covered with more of Becca’s handwriting.

It was of a heavier stock than her letter, the type photos were printed on, although he knew those were rare these days, and Becca’s message was brief. It simply said:

_This is the third and biggest miracle of my life._

_It won’t be easy, but if you’re brave and determined, it will be worth it. For both of you._

_Good luck._

Curious, he flipped over the photo and…

_Blink…_

Later, after the roaring in his head passed and shock bled out of him like blood from a wound, he would be able to say Becca had indeed been happy at the end of her life. Her eyes were bright in her wrinkled face, and her smile wide. She was leaning over a cake with two candles on it, a nine and a two, her long hair in a thick braid hanging over her shoulder, completely white except for the pink and purple streaks at her temples, that perfectly matched…

That perfectly matched those of her companion in the photo.

His arm was wrapped around Becca in a loose hug, half of his hair pulled back from his face in a small topknot, the rest hanging past his shoulders. And his crooked smile was even brighter than hers. But it still revealed a slightly crooked tooth that Steve…that he…

Becca was on his left, so his face was turned toward her, enough so Steve could see his right ear, with that little bump Steve had drawn over a hundred times, when he really wanted to run his tongue over it instead. No one else ever had a lump like that.

It wasn’t possible, _it wasn’t_ , _he was dead, hewasdeadhewasdeadhewasdead,_ but somehow Steve was staring at a photo of Becca and her brother, the brother he had loved and mourned, the brother he still loved and mourned.

If he thought he were imagining things, or Becca being uncharacteristically cruel, there was one last confirmation to quell any doubts in the white of the lower righthand border of the photo, also written in her hand.

_Rebecca Barnes-Proctor and Bucky Barnes, August 29, 2012_

_Blink…_

_Blink…_

_Blink…_


	26. 2015 - Steve (Cont'd...)

“Well look what the cat dragged in,” Sam said when Steve let himself into the apartment they shared sometime the following evening. He was standing in the doorway to the living room, his arms crossed, and behind him he could see Natasha sitting on the couch, going through the files in the box. “I mean, I know I said I was all for taking a break but –“

“How did you know the Soldier?” Steve growled as he pushed past Sam and into the living room. For the first time in three days the static living in his brain was quiet, replaced by a laser focus fueled by rage.

“Hello to you too, Steve,” she answered easily, as unintimidated by him as she ever was. “Thanks for calling to let us know you were on your way back from wherever you were.”

“Answer the damn question!”

“And what question would that be?” She cocked her head at him, eyeing him as if he were a mark.

“Steve, what’s going on?” Sam asked, joining them in the living room.

“In that envelope you gave me, there was an autopsy report confirming the death of the Asset,” the word burned like bile at the back of his throat, “signed off on by you. Why?”

“That was in there?” She shrugged a careless little shrug. “I’m impressed. Fury was supposed to have burned it.”

“Natasha!”

“I knew him from the Red Room,” she calmly stated. “I told you that already. That’s how I knew, as good as Novokov was, he was a pale imitation of the original. If it had been the original Winter Soldier, we’d have had a much harder time in DC last year.”

“Why were you onsite? Were you the one sent there to kill him?” His heart was racing, temples pounding. He had too many questions and absolutely no answers, and he needed something, _anything,_ to make the past three days make sense.

“No,” she shook her head. “He was already dead when I got there.”

“Yet you were confident enough to sign off on the autopsy report. Why?” Steve reached into the duffel bag at his hip to pull the envelope out.

“The details matched.” Her voice was as calm as if they were discussing the weather. “The right height, the right race, and a missing left arm. The original Soldier had a metal one, and whoever killed him removed it before they set the place to explode. It was a weapon, a highly advanced one, and it was logical they valued the tech more than the body.” She narrowed her eyes at him, her focus as sharp as Steve’s. “Why are you asking me this?”

“And why does it even matter?” Sam interrupted for the first time. “From everything Natasha just said, it’s a good thing he’s dead. One less HYDRA super-soldier we have to worry about.”

“He has a name!” Steve shouted, flinging the folder so it landed on the coffee table in front of her. “He has a name, and it’s…it’s James Buchanan Barnes!”

“He had a name?” Natasha murmured, reaching for the file just as Sam burst out with, “Wait a minute? Are you saying the original Winter Soldier was Sergeant Bucky Barnes? Of the Howling Commandos?”

“Yes!” Steve turned to face Sam, who was looking as confused as Steve felt.

“That’s not possible Steve. He died,” Sam paused, his features and posture softening, and when he continued his voice was kind. “On that mission in the Alps. Everybody knows that.”

“Except he didn’t,” Steve brought his hands to his head, pulling at his hair.

“That’s not possible Steve,” Sam repeated. “No one could have survived a fall like that.”

“It’s all in that file,” he said, pointing to it. As he did, his mind suddenly flashed back to Azzano, finding Bucky strapped to that table, empty IVs hanging from his arms. He never told anyone what he’d been through, saying he was too sick to remember. But he walked out of there on his own two feet, keeping pace with Steve, when others, who had suffered less, needed to be driven back on whatever vehicles they could scrounge.

After that, he’d been different. Quiet and withdrawn, rapidly losing weight whenever their rations were low, but somehow his strength never faltering. They slept in dirty ravines and trenches, yet he never once caught a cold, not even the one that had taken Dum Dum, Morita and Jones out of action for a few weeks. And there was one time Steve swore he saw Bucky’s thigh get slashed with a knife, only to find a thin pink line when Steve insisted on checking him personally.

_‘Nazi asshole wasn’t as good as he thought he was,’_ was all Bucky would say, his pupils big as saucers, his skin clammy and pale. _‘Lucky for me, I guess.’_

He’d already been injected with Zola’s version of the serum, and that’s how he survived the fall.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Steve hissed, starting to pace. He’d been so stupid, so oblivious, not recognizing the signs when they were obvious. And because he hadn’t, because he hadn’t gone after Bucky, he’d spent over fifty years as HYDRA’s plaything. And then he what? Escaped somehow? Found Becca? And if he was still alive, if the impossible were actually possible, why had he not come looking for Steve?

On the couch, Natasha was silent, the pages making no sound as she flipped through them. She was usually silent, unless she wanted someone to know she was there. Steve had taught himself to listen for that silence, but this was eerie, even for her.

“Natasha,” he said, remembering there was information she had, information he needed from her, if any of this was going to make sense.

“I never knew his name.” Her voice was the whisper of a mouse, instead of its usual purr of a cat. “None of us did. I don’t think even he knew it in the end. He was just the Soldier.”

“So you did know him?” Sam asked the question before Steve could.

“They brought him in to train us, and he was brutal, the most brutal opponent any of us ever faced. But he was kind too,” she said.

“Yeah, that’s not exactly matching up,” Sam shook his head, trying to peer over her shoulder at the file in her hands.

“You don’t understand,” Natasha glanced at him. “He was brutal because he was there to teach us, to help us become the best of the best, and lessons with him were always the most difficult, but we learned from them, he made sure we did. But he was never cruel about it, and if you were really hurt, he always knew and stopped. And he never took advantage of us, never even tried.”

“And that makes him a good guy?” Sam frowned.

“You have no idea what kind of hell we were all living through,” she sneered at him. “And don’t you dare ask me for details, because I won’t ever share those with anyone, not even Clint. But the Soldier was one of the only bright spots, and we were always relieved when he was around. It meant no one was going to touch us without our permission, or hurt us for no reason. I liked working with him. He was quiet and deadly, but you never had to be afraid when you were on a mission with him.” She shifted her gaze from Sam to Steve, her expression softer than he’d ever seen it.

“He was kind, Steve,” she said. “In spite of everything they did to him, somehow he found small ways to be kind, that I’ve never forgotten. I hated having to sign that autopsy report, especially since he’s the reason I’m here today.”

“How?” Steve asked, all his previous anger gone. This was the most Natasha had ever shared of her past, and he knew she was offering it out of friendship.

“Fury likes to think he’s the reason I finally switched sides for good, that it was him who convinced me to turn my back on the Red Room, but he wasn’t.” There was a curl to her lips, small and wry, with a painful twist, like the click of a lock. Or a secret drawer sliding open. “The last time I came face to face with the Soldier was ugly. I was there to either drag him back to Russia or kill him. The fight didn’t go well, he knew I was tracking him, and I thought I was the one who was going to be killed. But he didn’t. Instead he told me I had a choice, that I was better than what they made me think I was. When I finally believed him, and made that choice, he left me a way out.”

“So he managed to escape somehow?” Sam asked just as Steve closed his eyes. It was so fucking Bucky, to offer help to the helpless, even if Natasha would kill Steve for ever thinking of her that way.

“For a while at least,” Natasha continued. “But then he became active again, taking out key members of HYDRA in Europe, and I thought his programming had been reactivated. Both the Red Room and HYDRA like to install their failsafes, and they’re impossible to overcome on your own. I was hoping to get there in time to help him, but it was too late. He was already dead when I got there.”

“He’s not dead,” Steve said softly.

“Steve, man, I know this is a lot to take in,” Sam began.

“What do you mean he’s not dead?” Natasha asked, her attention as sharp as the sting from one of her Widow Bites.

“After I read what was in that file,” he titled his chin in its direction, “I asked JARVIS to get me any information he could on Bucky’s family. Bucky had three younger sisters he was crazy about, and I wanted to ask for their forgiveness, I suppose, for not going back for his body and saving him. But I was too late, they were all already dead. He was closest to the youngest, Rebecca, but she died two years ago, at ninety-three. I was able to contact her former nurse instead, and I went to see her to ask if Becca had been happy at the end, Bucky would have wanted me to. Becca left something with her for me, a keepsake box.” Steve reached into the bag still at his hip and pulled out the box, lifting the lid. “Inside there was a letter, along with this.” He held the photo out to Natasha, who slowly took it from his hands.

“Is that the Soldier you remember, Nat?”

“It’s a good likeness, I’ll give you that,” Sam said from his perch on the back of the couch, glancing between the photo in Natasha’s hand and the ones in the file. “But it could just be a relative, a nephew or a grandson, maybe?”

“That’s what Becca’s nurse said they told everyone. But it’s not, it’s Bucky. I grew up with him, and the man in that picture has the same crooked tooth and bump in his ear. I’d recognize it anywhere.”

“C’mon man, you can’t be serious. That can’t possibly be Sergeant Barnes,” Sam tried to be the voice of reason. But Steve ignored him, focusing on Natasha instead. She was scrutinizing the image, and while her expression remained implacable, Steve could hear the gears turning in her head.

“You took out your handlers,” she murmured under her breath. “You got rid of them one by one, but needed to make sure anyone else who might come looking for you believed you were dead, and you used me to do it. You smart motherfucking son of a bitch. You out widowed the Black Widow.”

“It’s him, right?” Steve asked her directly.

“It could be a fake,” Sam tried one last time. “They can do amazing things with photoshop these days. You’ve seen for yourself what JARVIS can do.”

“It’s not a fake,” Natasha interjected. “We’ll check of course, but I don’t think it is.”

“And why would it be in a box Becca left specifically for me?”

“I don’t know man,” Sam threw his arms up in the air. “If what you’re saying is true, none of this is making any goddamned sense.”

“We’ll do a background check on the nurse and the sister as well, just to be sure,” Natasha lifted her head and met Steve’s gaze directly. “But I think Steve is right. He’s still alive.”

“And so what if he is? Then what?” Sam asked.

“We find him,” Steve decided, feeling steadier on his feet than since he first opened that envelope. He had a mission now, a new one, and his team, his closest friends there to help him. He’d find Bucky and then, well, they’d see.

“We find him,” Natasha agreed with a nod. “Now start at the beginning and tell me everything you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone reading this, wherever you are and however you celebrate this time of year, I wish you and yours a very Happy Holidays, filled with safety, health, peace and love. 


	27. 2015 - Steve (Cont'd...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all of you who celebrate it, Happy Boxing Day! Here, have an extra chapter. 
> 
> Also, somebody in the comments told me they might, just might have a birthday today. Happy Birthday! I hope you're having a great day.  
> 🎂🎂 🎂

Of course it wasn’t as simple as all that. Bucky had been playing a very long and complicated game of chess with the precision of a master and the perspective of a sniper. Their only advantages were he was more than likely unaware of what Becca had done, and that Steve knew he was alive and was looking for him.

“We still have to be careful though,” Natasha reminded him. “Jacob Benjamin Proctor may have vanished into thin air, but I can guarantee you he left safeguards in place in case anyone starts asking too many questions or comes looking for him. The Soldier was the best at what he did, even when he was HYDRA’s captive, and that’s because he always knew how to think eight moves ahead.”

“He was always like that,” Steve confided. “And please don’t call him the Soldier anymore Nat. His name is Bucky.”

“I never knew his name,” she repeated her words from earlier. “I always wondered, but I never knew.”

“It’s James Buchanan Barnes,” he told her. “But to his friends, he was always Bucky.”

“I doubt he ever thought of me as a friend,” she shrugged with her perfect indifference. But Steve knew her now, considered her one of his own dearest friends, and could read her better than that.

“He helped you escape, didn’t he?” he reminded her. “That means he considered you a friend.”

“I’m still going to punch him when we find him,” she muttered in her dry way. “I can’t believe he out-widowed me.”

“You’ll have to get in line,” Steve laughed, glad he wasn’t in this alone.

“No one is going to be punching anyone,” Sam announced as he came back into the room carrying the bag of Chinese takeout they ordered. “As the only sane person here, I have to advise against violence.”

“One punch, just a little one,” Steve offered.

“No, Steve.”

“What if I kick him in the ankle instead?” Natasha tried.

“Don’t forget I’ve sparred with you, woman,” Sam pointed at her. “A kick to the ankle from you usually means someone’s ending up on their ass.”

“Yeah, you.”

“Shut up, Steve.”

They ate their food as JARVIS ran the deepest possible background checks on both Becca and Flora, while Steve recounted all the other details confirming Jacob was really Bucky; the woodworking, nickname, love of old Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies, and absolute devotion to his sister. By the time he finished, JARVIS concluded his search, finding nothing more than a few parking tickets, and no connections to HYDRA or any other organizations of concern. Even Bucky’s assumed identity held up to scrutiny, going so far as to include a birth certificate, social security number, driver’s license, and a blurry photo from a high school yearbook, that if Steve squinted, was a viable match for the Bucky he remembered as a teenager.

“I’m not surprised,” Natasha said. “He was trained, just like I was, and would know how build a perfect false identity. And I’m betting he kept on top of how to do it too, since he knew he was going to have to do it again soon with his sister so elderly. He probably already had several identities in place, just waiting for him to slip into. It’s what I would do.”

“And he’s had a two-year head start,” Steve sighed, leaning back into the couch. “I should have looked for her sooner. He’d have still been there if I had.”

“You already had a lot of things you needed to deal with, Steve,” Sam told him. “You can’t blame yourself for taking the time to deal with it.”

“And I’ve followed colder trails before,” Natasha assured him.

“Still,” Steve shook his head, no longer hungry. “She was like a sister to me too. I should have made the time to see her.”

“From what you’ve said, Bucky was there with her at the end,” Sam reminded him. “And she found a way to make sure you knew he was still alive. That should tell you all you need to know about how she felt.”

“It was very Black Widow of her,” Natasha grinned. “I couldn’t have done it any better myself.”

“You would have adored her,” Steve smiled back at her.

“What was she like?” Natasha turned her attention back to the laptop, feigning indifference. “If you don’t mind sharing.”

“She was…” Steve took a few seconds to think about it, to try to find the words to describe Becca. “Funny, stubborn as hell, and extremely intelligent, with a great sense of humor…”

That was how they spent the rest of their evening, Steve sharing his memories of Rebecca, and then the rest of Bucky’s family, while Sam and Natasha, his newfound family, quietly listened, allowing him to reminisce.

It was comforting, especially after the shocks of the past three days, and Steve knew he was a lucky man. But someone was missing, Steve’s most important someone, and his absence was a palpable weight in Steve’s heart. Steve didn’t know what he was going to do when he found Bucky, but when he did he knew it was going to change everything for both of them.

***

Except it quickly became obvious Bucky did not want to be found. Two months later and Steve was still no closer to finding him than when they started. Wherever Bucky was now, whatever identity he assumed, he was being very careful, doing his best to live under the radar.

It was two months of an emotional rollercoaster filled with brutal highs and lows. Mostly lows, if Steve were being honest.

They dug deeper into Becca’s financial records, since according to Natasha that was usually the best place to start. Her finances were sound, with no unusual deposits or withdrawals, and in her will she left both the house, already paid in full, and the remainder of her savings, a decent nest egg, to Jacob. Immediately after her death, a trust was established in her name, into which Bucky deposited the funds, with instructions to transfer three hundred dollars twice a month into the checking account of Flora’s son, Jose, for upkeep of the property. It was automatic and self-contained, the trust’s address the house Bucky had not been back to in more than two years, and ultimately a dead end.

Under Natasha’s careful guidance, Steve called Flora to ask if she had any contact information for Jacob she was willing to share, since Steve decided he wanted to reach out to the grandson of his close childhood friend, only to be told, “I actually don’t have a way to reach him. He usually calls every few months to see how things are going, but always from a different number. I haven’t heard from him for at least eight months actually. Do you want me to pass a message onto him the next time he does call?”

“No, that’s alright, Flora. Sorry to keep bothering you, but thanks again for everything.” Steve hung up. When they pulled Flora’s phone records, the only numbers that could possibly match were from a pay phone in Georgia, a call made from a cellphone in Sydney, Australia reported stolen and subsequently returned to its owner, and a final one from an untraceable burner phone.

“Told you he was good,” Natasha was completely unsurprised.

“Too damned good,” Steve complained.

They resorted to paying a visit to the house itself; or more precisely, breaking into it under the cover of darkness. Natasha wanted to do it herself, claiming, “He’s going to have left security measures in place, booby traps, so he’ll immediately know if someone tries to do exactly what we are. It’s going to take all my skills to make sure we don’t set anything off.”

Steve refused to be left behind.

“He lived there Natasha, with Becca. I need to see it,” he crossed his arms. “And I knew him better than you. I might recognize something you’d miss.”

It was another dead end. And to Natasha’s shock, surprisingly easy to do. The house was completely empty when they slipped inside, the walls bare, not a single piece of furniture in any of the rooms, not even the attic. The blinds were drawn, a slightly stale smell in the air, but the lawn was mowed, and overall it was relatively clean. Jose was apparently taking his job seriously, a fact they confirmed with the discovery of several bottles of cleaning products and used rags in the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink.

Natasha uncovered the only clue in the small gardening shed in the backyard; a single knife, buried beneath the ground in one of the corners.

“Old, Russian made, from World War One,” she said, examining it in the car as Sam drove them back to DC.

“So useless, basically,” Steve sighed, rubbing his temples.

“Not completely,” she shook her head. “It proves he was here at least. I wonder if it was one of his handlers.”

“Why leave that, and nothing else?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m more curious why there weren’t any security systems in place. That’s not like him.”

“Maybe he was in a rush?” Steve offered.

“Or maybe he has no intentions of ever coming back,” Sam spoke for the first time.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Steve said. “It’s a nice house, in really good condition, right next to a lake. Becca’s house.”

“A good safehouse, if nothing else,” Natasha added. “Or a financial asset, if he ends up needing money.” She held the knife out to Steve. “Here.”

“No, you keep it,” he told her. “You’d know how to use it better than I would anyway.”

“It has to be cleaned, and the blade definitely needs sharpening, but it’ll do,” which was her way of saying thank you, the knife disappearing somewhere in her jacket.

When they weren’t reviewing financial records, or investigating Bucky’s last known address for clues -

_“B and E, you mean,” Sam made sure to remind them. “Call it what it is, people.”_

_“You’re no fun, Sam,” Natasha crinkled her nose at him._

\- they worked on reconstructing a timeline from what little information they had. Based on what Natasha remembered regarding the deaths of a few known HYDRA operatives, they guessed Bucky escaped from HYDRA’s hold sometime at the beginning of 2000, eliminating four of his handlers before going dark for nearly two years, most likely to recuperate, according to Natasha. He emerged again in 2002, spending the next three years killing his remaining handlers, until his last hit in 2005, when Natasha identified the body. It was all based on conjecture, and there was absolutely no evidence that would hold up in a court of law, but that was why, along with the identity of the people killed, Natasha was convinced it was him.

“And then he what? Showed up at his sister’s house in 2005 with a _‘Hey, long time no see, guess what? I’m not dead.’_ ” Sam asked. “And she took him in? Just like that?”

“We have proof Jacob was in the area since then, so yes,” Natasha said, while Steve frowned, his thoughts racing.

“Earlier than that, I think,” he murmured.

“Why?” Natasha asked, eyeing him.

“Flora said something,” Steve reran his conversation with the nurse over in his head for the hundredth time. “About Jacob…Nothing too specific, but she said Becca once told her Jacob had a rough time in his youth, drugs or falling in with a wrong group of people, Flora didn’t know, but Becca helped him overcome it, and that was why he was so devoted to her.”

“She said that specifically?” Natasha wanted to know. “Drugs or the wrong group of people?”

“Those were her exact words,” Steve nodded.

“Do you think she knew?” Natasha wondered. “That Bucky would have told her?”

“If you’re asking me…” Steve paused to remember a little girl holding the hand of her gangly big brother, and that same little redheaded girl demanding he pick her up and toss her into the air over and over again, Bucky always giving in, Becca’s giggles echoing in the air, her confidence in her brother’s ability to catch her absolute. “Yeah, I think he would have.” He blinked and the image disappeared.

“They adored each other,” he continued, and then swallowed. “And since I wasn’t there to help, he would have gone to the only other person he could trust. Becca wasn’t stupid, and once she recognized him, she wouldn’t have hesitated taking him in.”

“That’s a big risk,” Sam shook his head.

“She would have done it for him. She would have done anything for him.”

“Do you think she knew about the rest of it? What he was really doing?” Natasha asked.

“Becca wasn’t stupid,” Steve said again. “She probably knew more about what happened to him than we do. And she could keep a secret.” Steve knew that for a fact. “She probably did know. He probably told her. She was a good person, don’t get me wrong, but Bucky’s family was always very protective of their own. I’m willing to bet her only objection was that she couldn’t help him do it herself. Can’t say I disagree, sorry Sam.”

“Can’t say I would either,” Natasha agreed. “The men he took out, they were _nasty_ pieces of work, responsible for a lot of the worst crimes against humanity. He did us all a big favor by getting rid of them.”

“So then we’re looking at ten years, at least, maybe twelve, living with his sister,” Sam was frowning.

“Approximately,” Natasha said, turning her attention back to her laptop.

“And how old do we think he was when he escaped?” Sam went on.

“He was twenty-eight on our last mission together,” Steve swallowed, forcing himself not to remember _that_. “And best guess, he was out of cryo for…” He trailed off, glancing at Natasha.

“Five or ten years, based on what little we have,” she finished for him.

“Right,” Sam nodded. “So he was somewhere between thirty and thirty-five years old when he escaped, and then spent the next decade with Becca in Jersey.”

“What are you getting at, Sam?” Natasha asked, looking up from her screen.

“Look, I know you’re both sure it’s him, but I gotta admit, I still have my doubts,” Sam exhaled. “The guy _you’re_ talking about would at least be in his forties now, if not older. The guy in _that_ photograph, that hasn’t been tampered with according to JARVIS, doesn’t look a day older than twenty-seven. I’m thinking it really is a picture of her grandson Jacob, and we’re just chasing ghosts.”

The room was silent by the time Sam finished, Natasha’s fingers unmoving on the keyboard. Sam had made his point, and he was right, it was a good one. But Steve also knew for a fact he was wrong.

“It’s the serum,” he said quietly into the silence, picking up a random file from the coffee table to give his hands something to do.

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“It does something to your DNA, no one knows what exactly, but it changes you, permanently,” Steve shrugged. “Heightened senses, enhanced speed, strength and endurance…and it also gives your cells the ability to regenerate from almost anything. Makes them think even the slightest change is a threat that needs to be healed…including aging.”

“Are you shitting me?” Sam’s mouth was open.

“I wish I was,” Steve laughed dryly. “Bruce explained it to me, not too long after I came out of the ice. He used bigger words, most of which went over my head. They still don’t know how it works, and whatever it does, it seems to be a one and done, and then it disappears, because they can’t find any traces of the serum in my body, but the effects are permanent. It’s why I didn’t die when I crashed the Valkyrie, and why, according to Bruce, I’m going to live for a very, very long time.”

“Jesus Christ,” Sam muttered.

“Zola worked with Erskine on the original version, the one they gave to the Red Skull, and he was a smart little motherfucker. He would have kept working on it, wanting to improve it. The serum he injected Bucky with was probably a very close second, if not as good as the one I got, and it would explain how he survived that fall and why he still looks like he’s in his twenties.”

“Well, it’s good to know I’m not the only one,” Natasha spoke up for the first time, shattering the second web of silence Steve’s words had woven.

“What?” Steve cut his eyes to her.

“HYDRA aren’t the only ones who like to experiment,” she shrugged. “The Red Room did too, although mine is nowhere near as good as yours.”

“And you volunteered for this?” Sam asked. Natasha stared at him as if he were stupid.

“Do you think I actually had any choice in the matter? That any of us did?” she scoffed. “It was supposedly my reward for graduating the program, one of them anyway. I never asked for it, but just like Steve I have to live with the results.”

“At least I had a choice,” Steve said to Sam, but he kept his gaze on Natasha, hoping his eyes conveyed his understanding.

“Did you have any idea this was a possibility?” Sam pressed.

“I didn’t even know if I was going to survive the procedure,” it was Steve’s turn to scoff. “It was anybody’s guess if I would.”

“And you did it anyway? Were you out of your mind?” Sam demanded.

“Bucky said the same thing when he first found out,” Steve snorted.

“Yeah well, I’m starting to think out of all y’all, Bucky’s the only sane one,” Sam groused. “Including me. Ugh.”

“You can see for yourself when we find him,” Steve smiled. “After I punch him.”

“And I kick him,” Natasha added.

“There will be no punching and no kicking, do you hear me?”

“I think dad needs a nap,” Natasha said to Steve. “He’s starting to get grouchy.”

“Must be his age.”

“I swear to god, you two!”

That had been a high point, one of the few they had. Most of them were much, much lower than that.

There was a day, one of the lowest, when Sam’s question to Natasha, “He was an active operative for all those years, and no one outside of HYDRA knew he existed? How is that even possible?” and her response, “Most of the intelligence community doesn’t believe he existed. And if they did, they called him a ghost,” caused something in Steve’s brain to click.

_‘No, no, no more ghosts! No more ghosts! You’re dead, you’re dead, just like he is!’_

And…

_‘We had to make choices, there was too much at stake, and no one was worth the risk. You understand why I had to do it, don’t you darling? I had no other choice, but you understand, don’t you?’_

And…

_‘I knew you would…He said you wouldn’t, but I knew he was wrong, and you’d understand.’_

Ice filling his veins, colder than the ice drowning his lungs as the Valkyrie sank. And endless, endless chasm of it, just like the one Bucky had fallen into. The ninth circle of Dante’s hell, and no escape for either of them, because…because…

“Peggy knew.” He didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice, the growl of a leviathan, the whizzing of his shield as it flew through the air.

“What?” Both Sam and Natasha asked.

_“Peggy knew.”_ He was on his feet, pacing the room like a caged animal, the cold in his veins replaced by the flames of Uriel’s sword. “And…and…”

_We had to make choices, there was too much at stake, and no one was worth the risk._

“She did nothing! She just left him there!” His fist was suddenly in the wall, bits of plaster clinging to his skin.

“Jesus Christ, Steve!” Sam was at his side, pulling him back, pulling him away, unafraid, just like Natasha was, in spite of how Steve was growling. “Let’s get this cleaned up and some ice on it, and then you can tell us what the hell is going on with you.”

Natasha already had the cold water running and their first aid kit open on the counter by the time Sam dragged Steve into the kitchen. The skin on Steve’s knuckles was already starting to close, but Sam insisted on washing them clean and bandaging his hand, finishing with the application of an ice pack.

“Now take three deep breaths, in and out, just like that,” Sam ordered in his VA voice. “And again…Good. One more time…Good. Now tell us what it was that set you off like that.”

“Peggy knew Bucky was alive, Sam.” The anger was still there, still pulsing, still thrumming through his veins. But it was running alongside a bone deep exhaustion. Steve was not naïve, he never had been, and knew politics was a shady business. The US had taken far too long to get involved in War World Two, and turned away plenty of boats filled with refugees fleeing for their lives. But everyone could agree the Nazis were an evil force that needed to be stopped. But it was even worse now, too many shades of grey, each side justifying their actions in the name of the greater good, Fury and the Tesseract and _fucking Project Insight_ , while innocents suffered. A gentle boy being turned into a weapon, because he was drafted into a war he never wanted to fight, and left to suffer when someone could have saved him, but decided he wasn’t worth the risk.

No wonder Bucky disappeared after Becca died; she was only one who never let him down.

“Peggy Carter? Your Peggy Carter?” Sam asked. “How do you figure that?”

“Something she said to me. A few things actually…That she had to make a choice, and no one was worth the risk. _Oh fuck!_ ” Another piece of the puzzle snapping into place.

“Keep your ass in that chair, Steve,” Sam commanded. “Use your words, not your fists.”

“He visited her.”

“What?” Sam’s eyes widened. “Bucky visited Peggy? Are you sure?”

“She asked me to forgive her, said he said I wouldn’t, but she knew he was wrong, and I’d understand.”

“Oh Jesus,” Sam shook his head.

“Goddammit Peggy. How could you just leave him like that? You knew him, he was one of ours.”

“Operation Paperclip,” Natasha said from the other side of the kitchen island. She’d been so quiet, Steve forgot she was there.

“What?” he asked, turning to face her.

“Operation Paperclip,” she repeated. “It was a project in the fifties by the Americans to recruit Nazis scientists to their side in exchange for amnesty. They wanted their knowledge, decided what they could gain from it was more important than the crimes they committed. Carter was the director of SHIELD, she had to have signed off on it. I bet if we dug a bit, we’d find out she was the one who recruited Zola. It was more than likely how HYDRA was able to infiltrate SHIELD. If anyone would have known who the Soldier originally was, it was more than likely Director Carter, especially if what you say is true, and she knew him. I’m sorry Steve.”

“That’s…that’s cold,” Sam shook his head.

“It’s the nature of the business,” Natasha shrugged. “I can tell you from experience the Russians were just as bad.”

“It still doesn’t make it right,” Sam insisted, before turning back to Steve. “I’m sorry too, Steve. This can’t be easy for you, on top of everything else.”

“She knew, and she just left him there. For fifty years she knew, and didn’t do anything about it. How could she? She wasn’t like that when we worked together.” Steve flexed his fingers beneath the icepack, the pain nearly gone. Or at least the one in his hands.

“I don’t know,” Sam rested his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “But you need to remember he got away and we’re going to find him. Focus on that.”

“Do you want me to dig deeper into Operation Paperclip? See if I can find anything?” Natasha offered.

“No.” Steve shook his head. “The less I know, the better. Otherwise I’ll…” He trailed off. He didn’t know what he would do.

“Right then,” Sam said after a moment. “I’m calling it. We’re putting all this shit aside for now. We’re going to go out, grab some chicken wings and beer, and watch a game somewhere. We could all use a break.”

“Agreed,” Natasha nodded, which meant she was as worried about Steve as Sam was.

“’K,” Steve conceded. “Sorry about your wall.”

“That’s OK,” Sam patted his shoulder. “It wasn’t like I was expecting to get my security deposit back. Now get your coat, we could all use some fresh air.

***

He never once went back to visit Peggy after that day. Bucky was right and she was wrong; he was not able to forgive her for the choice she made.

***

In spite of their continued efforts, they could not devote all their time searching for Bucky, no matter how badly Steve wanted to. There were times when Natasha’s unique skillset was required for either a solo assignment or one with Clint, and occasions when the Avengers needed to assemble. There was also their ongoing hunt for any remaining HYDRA cells, fewer than before, but even one was too many in Steve’s opinion, and he was always more than willing to personally ensure it was eliminated. Especially now.

Over the course of the ensuing months, they found two more; one in Venezuela and one in Portalegre, near the border of Portugal. They uncovered a third base just outside of Cleveland, Ohio, and that day was definitely a low point.

The place was abandoned when he arrived with Sam and Natasha, which was probably in everyone’s best interests, since they discovered an electric chair with arm braces and a crown, and a coffin sized refrigeration tank in the lowest levels of the basement.

The last thing Steve remembered was the clang of his shield dropping to floor before his vision went red, and then not remembering anything after that until Sam’s shouting brought him back to his senses.

“Enough Steve! It’s done! You destroyed it all! Stop!”

When the red faded from his eyes, he was standing in the middle of a pile of metal smashed to smithereens, sweat dripping from his face, and the knuckles on both his hands bloody this time.

“You back with us, Cap?” Sam asked from a distance of twenty feet away.

“I…I…” He took another look around to see Natasha standing on the opposite side of the room, leaning against the wall, her arms crossed. “I think so…Yeah.”

“Feel better?” she asked.

“This isn’t funny, Natasha,” Sam chastised, taking a step closer to Steve.

“I never said it was,” she merely shrugged. “But I think he needed to do it.”

“There was…blood on the chair,” Steve panted. “His blood.”

“I know,” Sam agreed. “But now there’s also blood on your hands, _again_ , and we need to get them cleaned up. _Again._ ”

“He was here Sam. And they…”

“And he got away,” Sam stated flatly. “You need to remember that. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. It’s not healthy.”

“Sorry.” He didn’t know what he was apologizing for, just that he was sorry. For everything.

“Don’t apologize to me,” Sam reached for Steve’s right hand, palpating the knuckles. “Definitely broken. We’re going to have to reset them in the Quinjet.”

“I’ll be fine,” Steve insisted.

“Uh-huh,” Sam rolled his eyes at him. “Tell me something. What would Bucky say if he saw you like this?”

“That’s a low blow Sam,” Steve snapped.

“I know it is, but tell me anyway,” Sam insisted, switching hands. “Same on the left.”

“He’d have –“ Shouted, yelled, told Steve he needed to be more careful, reminding him he wasn’t alone, that Steve had people around him more than willing to help. “Been furious with me.”

“The more I hear about him, the more I like him,” Sam said. “Why don’t you try listening to him then? You’re not doing him _or yourself_ any favors by acting like this. Now c’mon, let’s get back to the Quinjet and call this in. You’re definitely done for the day.”

***

“Can I ask you something?” Sam said, a little under a month later as the three of them sat in his living room, following yet another useless paper trail.

“Go ahead,” Steve rolled his shoulders, releasing a small, satisfied grunt when his neck cracked.

“Why are you doing this? Really? I mean, I know the guy was a friend of yours, but it’s been six months, and I think it’s pretty obvious by now he doesn’t want to be found,” Sam stated.

“That’s because he doesn’t know I know he’s alive,” Steve stated.

“But he knows you are, he knows you both are,” Sam gestured to include Natasha. “The entire world does. And according to the both of you, if he wanted to find you, he would have by now. So why are we doing this?”

“He’s my friend,” Steve said.

“I know he was,” Sam nodded. “But he’s also a vet, and more than likely the longest surviving prisoner of war in the world. I’ve worked with vets, counseled them, and most of the time these guys just want to get on with their lives. He took out the assholes who held him captive, but after that he stopped and from everything we’ve been able to figure out, wherever he is, he’s living a quiet life, minding his own business. What gives us the right to interfere?”

“I don’t want to interrupt his life, Sam,” Steve insisted.

“Are you sure of that?” Sam arched an eyebrow at him. “Cos I’ve seen what this is doing to you, and I’m not so sure even you know what you want.”

Steve needed to remind himself Sam was a good guy, one of his closest friends, and his questions were coming from a place of concern, not criticism. And he had a right to them, especially with the way Steve was acting lately. He took a deep, deep breath, and braced himself for what he needed to say next.

“The last time I saw Bucky, he was screaming, because I didn’t reach him in time, and he was falling. Do you know what that feels like Sam? To see something like that every time you close your eyes?”

“I’m probably the only one who does,” Sam said, his words a slap to Steve’s face.

“Sorry, sorry, I know you do,” Steve apologized. “But if it was Riley, instead of Bucky, and you were me, what would you do?”

“The same thing you are,” Sam admitted, but his eyes were sharp as he stared at Steve, just like the falcon of his namesake. “Did he ever know you were in love with him?”

“What?” Steve jerked his head up.

“I ask, because you asked me if I would be doing the same thing if this were Riley,” Sam shrugged. “And I would. But that’s because I was in love with him.”

“Oh Jesus, Sam, I’m so sorry. Did he know?”

“He did,” Sam nodded. “And stop deflecting. Did Bucky?”

It was now or never, and Sam deserved the truth, Natasha as well. They had both stood by him through all of this, devoting their spare time to helping him search, putting up with the back and forth of his moods and temper. And in her letter, Becca made sure to remind him times had changed, and to be brave; that if he was, things would be all right in the end. She was the one who set all this in motion, and if nothing else he owed it to her.

“No, he didn’t,” Steve finally admitted, his tongue dry, wondering if the world would change now that he’d said it aloud. “But he wasn’t that way, and I didn’t…I didn’t…I just _couldn’t._ But I always did, ever since I knew what it meant to love someone who wasn’t family.”

“OK,” Sam’s voice was gentle, as if he inherently understood what the admission cost Steve. “You know we don’t care right? That it doesn’t change how either of us feel about you. We’re still your friends, we’re always going to be your friends.”

“Thank you,” Steve whispered. He hadn’t known how desperately he needed to hear that. How terrified he’d been of their reactions.

“Well, congratulations on finally coming out. Welcome to the club,” Sam nudged Steve with his elbow, and then grew serious. “Was it always just Bucky, or was there ever anyone else?”

“It was always Bucky,” Steve admitted. “With my health being what it was, there was never much interest in anyone else anyway…But I was an artist before all this,” he gestured to his body, “and women weren’t…my favorite thing to draw. But I wanted to be sure, and after Bucky shipped off to basic, I snuck into a queer bar or two, and well, there was definitely a reason why I liked drawing men more.”

“That’s certainly not in the history books,” Natasha grinned.

“Neither was the fact I used to attend socialist rallies,” Steve shot back, something in him releasing with her teasing. They were okay, it was okay, they were not going to abandon him.

“Stop the presses, Steve believes in social justice,” Sam snorted. “Who would have ever guessed?”

“You never said anything,” Natasha said gently.

“It’s hard for me to talk about,” Steve shrugged. “We weren’t very religious, me and my ma, but we were Catholic, and it was considered a sin. I thought it was something else wrong with me, on top of everything else.”

“You know that’s not true, right?” Sam stated.

“I know. I figured that out after the serum.” When they merely stared at him, puzzled, he went on, “Erskine told me if the serum worked, it would fix everything wrong with me. And it did. I could hear, was no longer color blind, and my spine was straight, along with everything else. But that remained the same.”

“Because that’s not something that needed to be fixed,” Sam reiterated.

“That’s what I figured,” Steve smiled for the first time. “But then we were in the middle of a war, and it wasn’t a priority.”

“So Tony’s right? You’re still a virgin?” More teasing from Natasha, a feather replacing one of the bricks weighing heavily in his heart for far too long.

“I know how to give a blowjob,” Steve muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

“So do I, it’s not that hard,” Sam said.

“It is if you’re doing it right,” Natasha felt it necessary to add.

“Quiet over there in the peanut gallery,” Sam pointed at her, before looking back at Steve. “Did anyone else ever know?”

“Becca did,” Steve admitted. “She caught me looking at Bucky once, and like I’ve said a million times, she was a smart one. She knew right away.”

“And she still sent you that photo. Hm,” Natasha murmured.

“Which brings me back to my original point,” Sam cut in. “What happens if when you find him, he’s married and has a kid?”

“Then I’d respect that,” Steve said. “I just need to see for myself he’s alright.”

“You swear it?” Sam asked.

“Of course I do.” Steve paused, narrowing his eyes. “Why are you asking me this? Do you know something?” Natasha was now staring at Sam in the same way Steve knew he was. “Sam…Sam, please.”

Sam took a long time before answering, eventually shaking his head with a sigh.

“Go get your box,” he finally said.

“Sam –“

“Just go get your damn box, Steve.” Steve was already back from his bedroom with Bucky’s box by the time Sam finished speaking.

“Sam,” he said again, holding it out to him.

“It’s a long shot, but,” Sam took the box from his hands, “I may have a lead.”

“What lead?” Steve demanded.

“My sister’s a potter, did you know that?” Sam set the box on the coffee table and opened the lid.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Steve wanted to know.

“I’m getting there,” Sam cut him off. “She picked it up in college and kept at it. And she’s good, real good. She even has a store on Etsy that does pretty well.” He carefully slid the panel that unlocked the drawer from the side, and laid it on the table.

“Sam!”

“The thing about artists and craftsmen, even if they’re just hobbyists, is that they always sign their work with a makers mark.”

“I take it you found one,” Natasha said, her eyes lighting up.

“I did,” Sam nodded. “Took me a while, but it was there.” He pointed to a corner on the inside of the box, where there was a small brand in the wood, about a centimeter wide, which would be completely concealed when the panel was back in place. As Steve scrutinized it, he realized it was an outline of a bumblebee with two interlocking Bs forming the wings.

“I took a picture, had JARVIS clean it up, and then run a search for a match posted anywhere on the internet, starting from two years ago,” Sam continued, reaching into his pocket for his StarkPhone. “It took him a while, cos there are like a gazillion images and videos on the web, but…”

“He found a match?” Steve asked.

“He found a match,” Sam repeated, flicking his phone so a holoscreen appeared in the air between them. “Like I said, it’s a long shot, and the post is already three months old, so he might be long gone by now, but…” He tapped his screen a second time, and a video from a Facebook post began to play.

In the clip, a woman’s hands put a box on top of a table. Those same hands lifted the lid, revealing the interior. But the video didn’t stop there. Less than a second later, she pulled the lid upward, revealing a center post holding it in place, before turning the lid around one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, pushing it back down and closing it. As soon as that was done, a hidden drawer popped out from the side. The entire clip was less than fifteen seconds in total, and to Steve it was obvious the box was very well-made, constructed of a pale wood, polished to a sleek shine. On one side of the cover was a striking sun and on the opposite a moon, the etching even more refined than the bee on Steve’s box, but with a similar enough style to likely have been constructed by Bucky’s hands. Steve was about to ask Sam to replay the video, when Sam said, “JARVIS, go back and pause at four seconds. Zoom in on the lower left corner and clarify, just like you did for me.” JARVIS proceeded as instructed, and when the video paused, there, on the inner lid was a small bumblebee, with inverted wings.

A perfect match to the mark on the box in Steve’s hands.

“It’s the same,” he breathed, glancing between the two, wanting to be certain he wasn’t imagining things. “Holy shit Sam, it’s the exact same mark!”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded.

“So that means, what?” Steve glanced at the header of the video; it had been posted a little more than three months ago by a Rachel Rhys in New Mexico. “He’s in Albuquerque?” He could be there in a few hours if they were lucky.

“Not quite,” Sam said. “Read the rest of the comments. According to Rachel, that box was given as a gift to her grandmother, by a volunteer at the old folks home where she lives. I’m thinking we could send her a message, asking –“

“Isabelle Rhys, eighty-six years old, grandmother to Rachel Rhys, permanent resident of the Regency Woodland assisted care living facility in Salem, Oregon,” Natasha cut in.

“Or Nat could do that,” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “So much for respecting people’s privacy.”

“If she wanted to protect her privacy, she wouldn’t be on Facebook,” Natasha shrugged. “Everyone knows how easy it is to hack.”

“That’s not the point.” Sam sounded as though he were regretting every single one of his life’s choices.

“The point is we’ve got a lead,” Steve said, box still clutched in his hands. “Thanks to you.”

“Next available flight out of Dulles isn’t until tomorrow. Am I booking two tickets or three?” Natasha asked.

“Damn straight you’re booking three,” Sam glared at her. “If you think after all this I’m letting you two nutjobs leave me behind, you’ve lost your damned minds.”

“Then you need to pack a bag and try to catch some sleep. Flight’s at six-thirty in the morning, and we all know how cranky you get when you don’t get your beauty rest.”

“I swear to god, woman –“

“Must be your age.”

Sam and Natasha’s banter was a background burble as Steve studied the image still levitating midair, at the small bumblebee with its inverted wings. It didn’t fade or change, no matter how long he stared at it, its outline no longer a brand on a piece of wood, but in his mind. After six months of searching, it was a tangible link to Bucky. And if just this once, _just this once,_ Steve’s luck held, after more than seventy years they would once again be face to face.

_Finally._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. The next one will go up as usual on Monday, when we'll find out what a certain somebody has been up to for the past few years. It will also be the first appearance of someone I can't wait for you to meet. 😊
> 
> **hugshugshugs** and I hope you're having a great start to your weekend.


	28. 2013-2016 - Jared Brian Benton (a.k.a. Bucky)

**2013 - 2016**

**Jared Brian Benton**

**(a.k.a. Bucky)**

It had been hard for him at the beginning, right after Becca died. He knew it was coming, had known for quite some time, and they said everything they needed to say to each other long before the end. But they spent twelve years together, and once she breathed her last breath, he found himself adrift, not knowing what to do with himself, the house that was his home suddenly too empty without the sound of her voice, her laughter or her heartbeat to serve as the metronome for his days.

“You’re not going to know what to do with yourself at first,” Miss Flora had been kind enough to explain to him on one of her last visits, when Becca drifted off to sleep before her examination was complete. “And that’s normal. You’ve spent so long taking care of her, you won’t remember what it’s like not to have to. It’s going to take a while for you to get used to having time for yourself again, and you’re going to feel lost. It will get better, and you’re going to have to grieve, but it _will_ get better. Just be patient with yourself, and you’ll get there. And remember, you’re not alone.”

She was such a kind woman, Miss Flora, and her words were prophetic. Because for the first time in all his long years, he felt absolutely unmoored and rudderless, lost in an endless sea of _now what?_ No matter how far back he reached in his memories, he simply could not remember a time when there wasn’t something for him to do; take care of his baby sisters, go to school, look after Stevie, help his family make ends meet. After that, it had been the war, keeping an eye on the Howlies, and guarding Steve’s back. Even during his time with HYDRA, there had always been something for him to do, a mission to complete, a target to eliminate, a handler to serve. Then came his escape and recovery, and finally the elimination of the bastards who turned him into what he was. Once done, there was his life with Becca, and learning how to live again, until it was her turn to be the one looked after. He supposed some would say it was freedom, but for him it was a vast vortex of the unknown, and he had no idea how to begin navigating it.

The only thing he did know was he could no longer stay there.

It took a week for him to finish putting all of Becca’s affairs in order. They had discussed most of the details, and been preparing for the day as soon as Dr. Keller told them the results of Becca’s bloodwork, but there were a few loose ends he needed to tie off before he could leave. As soon as he arranged for Flora’s son to look after the house, he got into Becca’s Toyota Corolla, old but still running like a dream due to the upkeep he performed on it, and drove out of Landing for the last time. He headed north, where right before the Canadian border he sold the car for a steal, boarded a bus to Toronto, and under a completely new name, took the first flight he could out of the country.

Becca said he should travel, and for the first year that’s exactly what he did.

He ended up in Croatia with his rucksack over his shoulders, and spent the next two months aimlessly wandering from country to country. He was a young-looking, fit man, and as long as he wore long sleeves and kept his hand covered, he blended seamlessly with all the other young people backpacking through Europe, students on their gap year or other travelers making their way from hostel to hostel, touring the sites. If he was quiet and withdrawn, no one seemed to notice or care, and it gave him the time and space he needed to process his tremendous grief.

Until eventually one day he woke up and was able to breathe for the first time without feeling as though his heart was being torn apart by glass. It still hurt, he knew it more than likely always would, but it was bearable, a pain he could carry instead of one he could only silently wail against. It was then he looked around, and decided to take Becca’s last words to heart and explore the world instead of simply getting on the next bus or train to wherever.

He went to Egypt first, to see the pyramids of Giza and the Sphinx, awed be the way they stood the test of time. He went to Venice and rode a gondola, then headed to Pisa, where in a newly recovered burst of silliness, took one of those pictures with his arm outstretched, as if he were holding the famous tower up. He headed to Australia after that, where he met Barbara, and they spent a few lovely weeks travelling together, and he rediscovered the joy of sex, the heat and simple pleasure of it. It was a temporary thing, they both knew it, and they parted on friendly terms, but it left him changed, because this too was something else he had forgotten; how nice it was to lie with someone skin to skin and not fear any pain. That his body was more than a weapon, that it could both give and receive pleasure, because he wanted, because he chose to, because Barbara had a nice smile and she liked his eyes.

Japan was next, where he tasted okonomiyaki for the first time, and walked the Shikoku Pilgrimage, alone at first and then accompanied by Haru. Haru had been funny and intelligent, with a soft laugh and an even softer touch. More importantly, he was a generous lover, allowing Bucky the opportunity to experience something he never had before, the slow exploration of a man’s body, versus the quick and rushed handjobs, blowjobs, and fucks of his youth and early army days. A glorious experience, and another one ending on amicable terms, Haru’s kindness, just like Barbara’s, helping to ease some of the ache of Becca’s death.

There were a few other countries, a few other cities, and a few other lovers after that. He danced in a nightclub in Madrid, nearly wept when he saw the aurora borealis with his own eyes, and climbed the steps of the pyramid of Intiwuatana in Machu Picchu. He took plenty of pictures, and one day on a whim and simply because he felt like it, he sent a postcard to Greece, with the message, _Wish you were here_ , and nothing more.

He doubted he’d get a response, but a few weeks after he sent the first one he received a text on his burner phone from an unknown number saying _I don’t_ , which made him laugh. After that he sent more, whenever a particular postcard caught his eye. She never responded right away, but eventually his phone would alert him with an incoming message, usually some variation of _Go away, Why are you bothering me?_ , or in response to the postcard he’d sent with a toucan on it, _I hope it bites your face off._ He didn’t do it very often, and he knew if the sentiment behind her words were true, she wouldn’t have bothered to respond. Yelena never did anything unless there was something in it for her, but they were two of a kind after all. It was nice to know not only was there someone else out there who understood what you’d been through in ways no one else could, but also cared enough to check in every once in a while.

A week after he sent the toucan postcard, and ten months from the start of his travels, he decided he was finally ready to return to the United States. He re-entered through the Canadian border, paid cash for a used van, picked up the six boxes he put in storage after Becca’s death under a pseudonym, and decided to head west. He had no particular destination in mind, but aside from his youth in Brooklyn, missions for HYDRA, and his years in Landing, he’d not seen much of the country of his birth. America was vast, there was plenty to discover, and he enjoyed the Jack Kerouac books Becca recommended he read, and a road trip would be a new experience, unlike any of his previous ones, so he decided _why not?_

It was a good decision, and he enjoyed his time on the road. Using his phone, he would map out his daily route, stopping at as many tourist traps as he could, ensuring there was a nearby roadside motel at the end of the day. He tried new foods, listened to music, and learned they took barbeque very seriously in the south, not that his stomach or taste buds complained.

He was a quarter of the way through his journey, on his way toward Louisville, Kentucky when his time as a lone traveler came to an end. It was at the outskirts of the city when something caught his eye on the side of the road; a small, shaggy mass, head lowered, wobbling as it slowly limped its way along the edge of the hot asphalt.

A dog, probably rabid from the looks of it, and no concern of his.

He shouldn’t stop, he knew he shouldn’t; it was more than likely feral and definitely flea-ridden, and not his responsibility. He wasn’t going to stop.

Except twenty feet later, when he glanced at his rearview mirror, the mangy little cur nearly fell over, and he was hitting his brakes. Cursing himself, he unzipped his hoodie and exited the van.

The mutt didn’t even lift its head as he approached, panting in exhaustion. The closer Bucky drew, the more evident the dog’s condition became, and it was bad. Even though its fur was matted, it was obviously underfed, the knobs of its spine clearly visible. It was panting, its sides heaving with every step it tried to take, whimpering in pain every time it lowered its left foreleg, which a quick glance revealed was badly broken.

_Son of a bitch_ , he thought as he lowered himself to a crouch directly in its path.

“Hey buddy,” he said softly, holding his metal hand out in case it decided to bite. The dog’s ears barely twitched at the sound of his voice, but it stopped its awful shambling, falling onto its side and staring up at him with hopeless eyes. “You’re in a bad way, aren’t you?” He edged forward slightly, taking another risk and reaching out to let the thing get a sniff of him. It did and whimpered again. He debated putting it down right then and there; he could be quick and knew death was sometimes a mercy, but then the little thing actually licked his hand and let out another whimper.

“Right,” he sighed, unfolding his hoodie. “Let’s see about getting you some help, huh? Just don’t bite me, OK? I’ve got the serum, but you smell like you’ve been living in a swamp, and I don’t know if even Zola’s fucking formula is strong enough to counter that.” Then he wrapped the dog in his hoodie, picked it up and carried it as carefully as he could back to the van.

A google search, drive to the nearest veterinary clinic, and forty minutes later, Bucky was being told by Sue, the vet on call, “It was kind of you to bring him in, but at this point we’re probably going to just have to put him down.”

“You can’t help him?” Bucky asked, to which Sue sighed and shook her head.

“It’s not that we can’t,” she admitted, and there was something mournful in her tone, letting Bucky know she was not happy with what she was about to say. “It’s just, he’s not chipped, so he’s definitely a stray. I hate to admit this, but it’s not uncommon for folks around these parts to abandon a dog at the side of the road, especially a mutt like him. All our shelters are filled to capacity right now, and from just my initial examination, he’s definitely going to need surgery to reset that leg, as well as fluids and a deworming. That’s not cheap, and we’re a small clinic, so we don’t really have the resources to spare.”

“But if you did, do you think he’d make it?” Bucky heard himself ask. Because the poor thing really was just a victim of bad circumstances. He didn’t bite Bucky when he picked him up, hadn’t even tried, merely whimpered quietly as Bucky got him settled in the passenger seat, obviously afraid but so desperate for any kindness he was willing to trust a stranger. Bucky remembered being that desperate, as well as that starving, knew what it was like in his bones and viscera. He also knew the relief that came when the hand reaching out didn’t strike, but offered gentleness instead.

“I don’t see why not,” Sue admitted after a moment, studying him. “He’s not even a year old, and with the right care and attention, dogs that young can usually make a complete recovery.”

“And exactly how not cheap are we talking here?” When Sue told him, Bucky felt his eyes widening. But he did have plenty of money, and nowhere he needed to be, so with his own sigh, he reached into his back pocket and asked, “Is cash OK?”

“It most certainly is,” Sue was smiling at him.

“And do you know of any nearby motels that might have a room available?”

“I can do you one better,” Sue said, leading him to the reception desk. “My cousin Darlene has a room over her garage she rents out from time to time. It’s not much, but it’s clean, with a private entrance and a full bathroom. Since you’re going to be here for a while, it’ll definitely be cheaper than a motel. I’ll give her a call, let her know you’ll be on your way.”

“Thanks.”

Every day for the next few weeks, after Bucky ate his breakfast at a local diner, he spent at least three hours at Sue’s clinic, visiting the dog, who he was still calling a mutt at this point. It had been touch and go for a while, and the first few days the poor little thing actually looked worse than when Bucky found him. His fur was too matted, and tick and flea infested to save, so they needed to shave him for both sanitary reasons and the dog’s own comfort. Once they did, it revealed how truly emaciated he was, as well as a few sores on his flanks and paw pads Bucky hadn’t seen at first, and he worried his decision only prolonged the inevitable. But while the clinic may have been small, everyone there was very good at their jobs and they assured Bucky what he was seeing every time he visited was to be expected.

“He made it through the surgery, which was my biggest worry,” Sue assured him when he expressed his concerns, “and he’s responding well to all the medicines he’s on right now. Don’t worry, he’s a fighter, he’s gonna pull through.”

“Still ugly though,” Bucky grunted, scratching the mutt’s ear. It was day three, and though he was still too weak to stand, his eyes were focused on Bucky, the tip of his tail flicking.

“Uh-huh,” Sue snorted. “Just give him a chance. Once he gains some weight and his fur starts to grow back in, he’s gonna be a fine-looking dog. And he already knows you’re the one who rescued him. You’ve made a friend for life.”

“Hmph,” Bucky grunted again, his fingers still stroking the mutt’s ear.

When he wasn’t at the clinic, he spent the rest of his time exploring Louisville. It was a nice enough place with a few good restaurants, but it didn’t feel like home, and Bucky knew he wouldn’t be staying there any longer than necessary. If not for the damned dog, he would have been long gone by now.

But well, there was the damned dog, and Bucky could admit, at least to himself, he was already attached.

By the end of the first week, the mutt had already put on some weight and was able to stand, albeit slowly and not for very long, and his eyes always tracked Bucky when he made his way toward the kennel where he was being kept.

He filled out a bit more by the end of the second week, his eyes brighter than they’d been and his tail always wagging when Bucky arrived. Bucky thought he looked ridiculous with the blue cast on his left foreleg and the plastic cone around his neck, and made sure to tell him so, while holding out the stuffed squeaky toy he picked up on his way over. But he could also sympathize, and made sure to tell him that too.

By the third week, the change in him was remarkable. While still in a cast, he now yipped when Bucky visited, and did his best to climb into Bucky’s lap and lick his chin, his long, whippy tail making a happy _thwip-thwip-thwip_ sound against the floor. His hair was growing back in, a shaggy mixture of grey, tan and black fuzz. He had soulful brown eyes, floppy ears and a grey splotch on the bridge of his snout that seemed to be one of his favorite spots for Bucky to rub. According to Sue, the dog looked to be a terrier mix of some sort, who had a bit of growing yet to do, his weight likely to top out at somewhere between thirty and forty pounds. Against all odds, he managed to pull through, eating and drinking well, and appeared as eager as Bucky was to start the next phase of their journey together.

Which was going to take some adjustments, especially on Bucky’s part, but Bucky was man enough to admit he was already madly in love with the pooch, and anything he needed to do would be more than worth it.

Twenty-seven days since he was first brought in, after providing Bucky with a very specific list of instructions, as well as things he needed to purchase, Sue decreed the dog well enough to be released into his care. The mutt wasn’t fully recovered yet, and still had a ways to go, but he was well on his way and no longer in critical condition.

“Have you picked a name yet? We’ll need one for his records before I can give you a copy,” she said on Bucky’s last day in Louisville.

“He’s still just mutt for right now,” Bucky answered, glancing down at the carrier at his feet.

“Right,” she rolled her eyes at him, while smiling at the same time. “Just remember, keep him in his carrier or strapped to a safety harness as much as possible. He’s OK to walk, just a little bit, but you don’t want him putting too much stress on that leg yet, it’s not fully healed. In three weeks, take him to a vet and hand them these.” She held out the folder. “They’ll give him his next round of vaccinations, and take another x-ray. If all looks good, they’ll remove the cast and let you know anything else that needs to be done.”

“Thanks,” Bucky took the file from her hand. “You’ve been a big help.”

“It was my pleasure, Mr. Rourke,” she said, calling Bucky by the name he’d been using while in Louisville. “And good luck to you both. You did a good thing, and you’re not going to regret it. You’ll see.”

When he eventually made it to another veterinary clinic in Flagstaff, Arizona, he wasn’t so sure of that. Well no, that wasn’t exactly true, but he did finally have a name for the stupid dog he was driving cross country with.

“Fart Breath?” the vet tech asked, glancing between Bucky and Fart Breath, who was sitting happily at Bucky’s feet. “Is that really his name?”

“I’ve spent three weeks trapped with him in my van. I had to keep the windows open _the entire time._ Trust me, it’s his name,” Bucky grumbled.

“All right then, let’s get him on the table and we’ll see -“ At that exact moment, Fart Breath, stinky bastard that he was, yawned right in the tech’s face, causing him to jerk back. “Oh…oh yeah. I get it now.”

“Told ya,” Bucky scowled.

“Well then, from these notes Fart Breath is here to get his cast removed,” the tech was coughing and waving a hand in front of his nose. Bucky could have told him it wouldn’t help; he’d already tried that, _multiple times_ , with no success. And _he_ didn’t have Bucky enhanced sense of smell. “He’s going to need an x-ray, but his file says he hasn’t been neutered yet. You might want to consider doing that while he’s here. Given his breath, Dr. Battiato might recommend a teeth cleaning as well. It’ll probably help.”

It didn’t.

Nor did the specialized dog biscuits.

Or any changes to his diet.

“I should have left you by the side of that damned road, you smelly ass motherfucker,” Bucky grunted when they were back in the van, heading north to the Grand Canyon. From his fleece pad on the passenger seat, Fart Breath looked up and panted stinkily at him. _“Jesus Christ!”_ Bucky hit the switch to open all the windows.

Horrible halitosis aside, Fart Breath was a good companion, especially once his cast came off. He filled out nicely, and was now a healthy thirty-five pounds, according to Dr. Battiato. His coat had grown in and was both shaggy and sleek, especially around his crooked, floppy ears. And he was smart too, quickly learning a few basic commands and easily adapting to a life on the road, eagerly trotting back to the van whenever Bucky whistled for him, happily settling on his cushion on the front seat. It also appeared Sue had been right; some part of Fart Breath’s brain seemed to know and recognize Bucky was the one who saved him, and was unbelievably devoted to him as a result. Unless they were in a park somewhere playing, where Fart Breath got the chance to relieve himself and chase squirrels while Bucky stretched his own legs, the dog seldom ever ventured further than five feet from Bucky’s side. He yipped when he was happy, but was otherwise a relatively quiet dog, his ears always flicking in Bucky’s direction whenever he spoke to him.

It was nice, Bucky had to admit. For all that HYDRA liked to call him their Fist, using him mostly as a single operative to eliminate targets, Bucky had never been a loner, always enjoying the company of others. He was less outgoing these days than he’d once been, but he could still turn on the charm when needed, and now preferred fewer, more intimate relationships than large groups of people, and he hadn’t realized how lonely he was until Fart Breath joined him. Bucky never had a dog before, although he always loved animals. When he was younger, his family couldn’t afford one, then later there were Steve’s allergies. HYDRA certainly wasn’t going to let him have a pet, and his time with Becca had been focused on his own recovery, then her care. So he didn’t know much about dogs, and if his reaction to Fart Breath, and the dog’s to him, was normal. But there was something soothing in having a constant companion always at his side, who didn’t care if he was feeling quiet that day, surly on another, or lost on a third. In fact, Fart Breath quickly began to intuit when Bucky needed him, pressing himself into Bucky’s side when they slept, or resting his head in his lap whenever Bucky parked at a campsite for the night, pulling out his whittling while staring up at the sky.

And, Bucky could shamelessly admit, he had the cutest little face he’d ever seen.

He was such a good dog, a stinky one no doubt, but a good dog, and all grumbling aside, Bucky never once regretted stopping for him.

That proved to be especially true when Bucky pulled into the lot at the Grand Canyon, paid the parking fee, grabbed his backpack and set out to explore. He’d always wanted to see the Grand Canyon. He and Steve used to talk about visiting it after the war, but they’d never gotten the chance. And now he was here, able to take in this huge expanse of cliffs and sky, overwhelmed by the vastness. It left him feeling small, but not in a bad way. More akin to a raindrop, a pinprick of starlight, or one of Becca’s intricate stitches; both insignificant and unique, a tiny piece of a much larger whole.

A peace settled over him as he stood there, Fart Breath at his side, one he hadn’t felt since Becca died. The loss of her was still an ache, but it was a part of him now, something he could carry with him instead of run from. She was with him still, she always would be, her imprint on his life as deep and eternal as these canyons, more long-lasting than anything HYDRA had done to him. He supposed, in a somewhat sentimental sort of way, that was the power of love. It cradled you when you needed it to, and embraced you not in spite of your faults, but because of them. He wasn’t perfect, far from it, but he knew then he was going to be alright. He could live a good life and be happy, not because his sister asked him to, but because he deserved it.

It might not be his ending, but it was definitely a good start.

***

Bucky spent a week in the Grand Canyon hiking and exploring, Fart Breath always at his side. By the time he returned to the van, something in him had changed, and he made a decision. He would continue heading west toward the Pacific Coast; it had been his goal to drive cross country after all. But once there, he would reassess his options and think about maybe settling down somewhere, find a place he could call home. None of the cities and small towns he’d been to so far felt quite right, but that was fine. He was patient and knew he’d eventually get there in the end.

Once he reached the coastline, after spending a few days in Los Angeles, he followed the Pacific Coast Highway to San Francisco, then further north into Oregon. The West Coast was beautiful, he had to admit, a sharp contrast from the east side of the country, with its own rhythm and pace and lots of beautiful scenery. The air even smelled different. He was thinking he’d head farther north into Washington state, pay a visit to Seattle, when the GPS on his phone told him he was seventy miles out from Salem, and he decided to stop there for a few days. Fart Breath was due for his next round of vaccinations, and it wouldn’t hurt for him to have a final check-up, making sure there were no lasting effects of what he’d been through Bucky needed to look out for. He used his phone to schedule an appointment with a vet, and then booked a pet-friendly Airbnb for a week.

Fart Breath was given a clean bill of health after his examination, deadly halitosis aside, and with his relief at the news buoying him, Bucky set out to explore the city. He had a week, which was plenty of time before he hit the road again, and decided to make the best of it.

Except at the end of those seven days, Bucky didn’t leave, extending his reservation for another week instead, and then another one after that.

Salem, Oregon, was by no means one of the biggest cities Bucky visited during his travels, and it certainly did not have the towering skyscrapers of New York or Los Angeles. But it had plenty of restaurants, shops and parks to keep it interesting, with an active nightlife if he wanted to spend a night on the town. The residents were laid back and welcoming enough, and the city itself was queer friendly, with a Pride festival held every August, something else important to him he hadn’t found in a lot of the places he’d been to. A bit of research informed him its climate was temperate, without the blistering heat of a New York City summer and seldom if any snowfall in the winter, so no one would comment if he always wore long sleeves. There were plenty of trees everywhere, and that smell in the air, that West Coast smell Bucky was coming to love, and more importantly no HYDRA bases or safe houses within a two-hundred-mile radius. That was always going to be a concern, something he needed to be cautious about, but he’d killed all his handlers before staging his own death. Aside from one person, even if he’d missed someone who had known about his existence, enough time had passed that anyone who may have known about him or his identity was more than likely dead, from old age if nothing else.

He could stay and start building a life here, pick an identity from the several he had in reserve, and lay down roots, seeing what bloomed. Potential and freedom, a new beginning, his and his alone, with nothing to hold him back; it was both frightening and exhilarating, but then again, the best things in life usually were.

“What do you think FB?” he asked his four-legged friend. “Think we should stick around? Make this place a home?” In response, Fart Breath panted once before jumping up into Bucky’s lap to lick his face.

_“Jesus Christ! Why the fuck does your breath smell like Satan’s asshole?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case any of you were wondering, this is what Fart Breath looks like:
> 
> And yes, for those of you who recognize him, that is Benji. But that's who I envisioned when I was writing Bucky's stinky best friend. Hope you love FB as much as Bucky does. 😊


	29. 2013-2016 - Jared Brian Benton (a.k.a. Bucky) (Cont'd...)

The first thing he needed to do was find a place to live. The Airbnb was nice enough, but there was no option to rent and he really wanted a place of his own. Using one of his laptops instead of his phone, he began reading through local real estate listings to see what was available. There were plenty of apartments, but he had his heart set on a house. Not only would it provide him more privacy, but was something he could own and call his. Nothing really appealed to him as he scanned through the available options until he expanded his search beyond the city limits when the photos from one place in particular caught his eye. The more he read, the more his interest grew, so he picked up his phone, called the realtor listed, and introducing himself as Jared Brian Benton, asked to schedule a visit.

“It’s definitely a fixer-upper,” Mrs. Leeman said twenty minutes after she first led him inside, “and given the current economy, it’s been on the market for a while. But the price does include the surrounding five acres of property. Of course, if you’re looking for something more modern, I have plenty of other places I could show you -”

“I’ll take it,” he cut her off.

“Are you sure, Mr. Benton?” she asked. “It’s going to be a lot of work.”

“It’s perfect,” he insisted. “I’ll take it. What do we need to do next?”

It was far from perfect, and Mrs. Leeman was right, it was going to require a lot of work. But as soon as he stepped inside, all Bucky could see was the potential it held and what it could become.

It was an old barn, a twenty-minute drive from the outskirts of Salem, reachable by a small, side road. But it was a wide, open space, with high walls and cavernous ceilings. As he stood in the center and stared around him, he could envision what it would look like once the floor was polished, the windows replaced, and a loft added, which would be a perfect place to sleep. He was going to have to hire an electrician to update the wiring, a plumber to do the same with the pipes, as well as a contractor to help build the loft, but he could do most of the rest himself. There was more than enough property for him to add a garage and a shed he could use as a woodworking shop, with plenty of land left over for FB to run and play. It was ugly now, but the bones were good, and just like he had gotten, just like Fart Breath had gotten, it deserved a second chance. Bucky could give it that chance, and in exchange it would become his home, the base of his new life.

If Mrs. Leeman was shocked at his quick decision, she was a smart enough salesperson to hide it, and they started the paperwork right away. It would take time for the sale to be approved, but Bucky had squirreled away plenty of funds from HYDRA, more than enough to live very comfortably for several lifetimes, which was probably a good thing given he had no idea how long his lifespan was thanks to Zola’s fucking formula, and he made sure his new identity had an excellent credit score and more than enough money to easily cover the purchase.

While the sale was in process, Bucky reached out to several electricians, plumbers and contractors, explaining what he wanted done, asking for timelines and estimates. It kept him occupied, which was a blessing, since in the middle of September of that year, barely a week after the first anniversary of Becca’s death, Washington, DC erupted in chaos with the revelation of HYDRA’s infestation of the government and the true intent of _Project Insight_. Bucky was not surprised as everyone else was by the news, but it still led to weeks of either nightmares or sleepless nights. Especially as more and more details were revealed, compounded by the data dump and Bucky discovered the name of the senator he’d been promised to.

But, and wasn’t there always a _fucking but_ regarding these things, Captain America, along with the Black Widow and someone called the Falcon, discovered what was going on before it was too late, exposing the truth and saving millions, if not billions, of lives in the process. Steve, who was and always had been a tower of courage, determination and strength, and Natalia, the deadliest and also brightest of Black Widows to ever exist. No one else would have been able to do what they did, take that stand so desperately needed, and Bucky was so fucking proud and grateful for the both of them.

But his relationship with both of them, no matter how fragile and bittersweet it may have once been, was long in the past, and he was no longer the Bucky or Soldier either of them would remember or even want to know. It was a door he needed to keep closed and locked, for his own safety, mental health and sanity, no matter how much it may have pained him.

So he focused on his barn and building his new life in Salem, while limiting himself to only a half hour of exposure to the newsfeeds every night. Steve and his new team were devoting their energies to searching out and destroying every single HYDRA base they could, leaving plenty of arrests and destruction in their wake. That was a tremendous relief, and he knew if anyone could do it, it would be them. Steve was more than likely furious they were still around after the sacrifice he made, and Bucky knew from personal experience how unstoppable Steve was once he set his mind to something. HYDRA didn’t stand a chance, especially with Natalia by Steve’s side, but Bucky was also glad he destroyed any and all proof of who he was and what had been done to him. Let them think Novokov, a nasty and vicious motherfucker Bucky remembered training, was the last Winter Soldier to exist. It was the truth anyway; metal arm and serum notwithstanding, Bucky was just a man with rainbow colored streaks in his shoulder-length hair, a dog with the smelliest breath in the world, and a barn he was transforming into a home.

By the beginning of 2015, while Steve continued his world tour of destruction, the sale of the barn was approved, the title transferred to his name, and the work could finally begin. The electrician updated and made additions to the wiring, the plumber came and completed the first phase of his work. The second phase would need to wait until the contractors Bucky hired finished construction on the upper loft and stairway leading up to it, while respecting and reinforcing the beautiful wooden beams supporting the roof. Once that was completed, the plumber would return to build the full en suite Bucky wanted, including a shower and huge, old-fashioned claw-footed bathtub. The plumber had already updated the toilet and sink in the small alcove on the first level, but this was going to be Bucky’s new home, and if he wanted to be a lazy motherfucker who didn’t have to walk down the stairs to take his first piss of the day, then he didn’t have to.

He moved in almost immediately after the sale, which was probably sooner than he should have, but he had certainly slept in worse places, and it gave him the time to focus on the projects he could handle while the rest of the work was being done; repainting the outside, building and installing his own cabinets in the kitchen, as well as a trunk and bureau for his bedroom, and getting the garden in shape. It was slow work, but every day he could see a recognizable improvement, that never failed to make him smile. By the end of spring, it was only halfway done, but it already felt like home and he was happy there.

Of course, working on his house wasn’t the only thing he did during those months. Two separate choices in particular had lasting effects that would forever alter the course of his life.

The first occurred only a few days after he moved in, when he discovered barn cats were actually a thing. Just as he was unfolding the cot he was using as a bed, he heard a barely audible meeping sound, so quiet someone without his enhanced senses would not have been able to detect it. Worrying the barn was infested with mice or rats, and hoping he wouldn’t also have to contact an exterminator, he followed the source of the sound, FB at his heels, to discover two tiny kittens curled up together in a tight ball beneath the rotted floor boards of his yet to be rebuilt back porch. They were obviously too young to be left on their own, but there was no sign of their mother, and he worried the work on the barn chased her off. Sighing, he once again removed his hoodie, gathered them up as gently as he could, and searched for the nearest twenty-four-hour emergency animal clinic, while Fart Breath did his best to get a closer look.

A day, and another hefty vet bill later, Fart Breath had two new feline sisters. While the work crews were at the barn, Bucky kept them in a blanket lined baby-pen in the back of his van where it was quiet, carrying them back into the house once the last workman left. In the interim, Bucky made sure to feed them every two hours, and handle them as much as possible so they were properly socialized per his vet’s instructions, grumbling about it the entire time.

And of course Fart Breath adored them, deciding he was their father and it was his responsibility to look after them. If FB wasn’t by his side, all Bucky had to do was check the pen, and there he’d be, curled up around the little balls of fluff, panting happily.

But then again, his stinky breathed dog wasn’t the only one, and by the time the work on the barn was complete, Bucky was the proud co-poppa of two slender and sleek young adult cats he would readily admit he was crazy about as well.

The first one was mostly dark grey, except for her paws, belly and whiskers, which were white, who seldom meowed, but had a purr louder than a motorcycle. As a result, he named her Purrzilla.

Her sister was all black, with green eyes, and a chatty little thing, who always greeted him with plenty of chirps and meows whenever he returned home from running an errand. She also proved to be a vicious and deadly hunter. Bucky did live in a barn, surrounded by lots and lots of grasses and trees, which unfortunately meant the occasional mouse. Except if any of them were stupid enough to actually crawl into the barn, it was the last decision they ever made, none of them surviving more than five minutes before his sweet and friendly kitty was eviscerating them. Bucky had to admit he was impressed by her skill, deciding to grant her the name Catcula. The only downside was she liked to leave Bucky “presents,” usually by the side of the bed for him to discover first thing in the morning. He quickly learned to always check before putting his feet down.

Other than that though, they explored and played, and figured out how to climb the upper rafters all on their own. Purrzilla was happiest in a sunbeam, and if she wasn’t murdering mice, Catcula loved to curl up in Bucky’s lap, and they all joined him in bed at night. They also kept Fart Breath company during the days Bucky couldn’t take him with him, particularly on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, when Bucky made the second choice that would change his life.

***

Even though the barn was coming along nicely, Bucky forced himself to remember another part of Becca’s final request, to not be alone. By now he was a familiar face at the hardware store and lumber yard, as well as the vet’s, and he got along well enough with the crews while they worked on his house. But as of yet, he hadn’t really met anyone, and certainly no one he would consider himself on friendly terms with. He wasn’t naïve enough to think he’d make any great long-lasting friendships, but he knew he needed to socialize more, familiarize himself with the city and its inhabitants if nothing else. So once the kittens were old enough to not need a feeding every two hours, he started making daily trips into Salem, to continue exploring and find all its hidden gems. There were a few decent bookstores, plenty of coffee shops, and a plethora of eateries. While his caloric requirements remained high, he wasn’t a particular picky eater, and on a day he managed to complete all his errands earlier than expected, he selected a place at random to sample its offerings. A few blocks from where he parked his van, he noticed a diner called _A Little Bit of Honey and A Little Bit of Spice_ and decided to give it a try.

He liked the look of the place immediately. It had big windows, a red and white checkered floor, and mismatched colorful artwork hanging from the walls. There were a variety of seating options, from stools at the counter, to metal lined tables with multi-colored chairs, and booths along the walls. It was both kitschy and retro, but not annoyingly so, and while not jammed packed, there were plenty of people enjoying either a late breakfast or early lunch and he took that to be a good sign. Since he would always prefer to not leave his back exposed, he sat down in a small corner booth, and people watched while he waited for a server. It took less than a minute.

“Heya hon, love the streaks. Can I get you a coffee or water while you take a look at the menu?” When he looked up, he saw a tall, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested woman, with light brown eyes, amber skin, a blonde buzzcut, and a noise piercing smiling at him as she placed a menu on the table.

“Thanks. Did them myself,” he returned her grin, knowing she was referencing the turquoise and gold streaks in his hair. He’d enjoyed experimenting with both his and Becca’s hair, and kept up the habit of changing it every so often, even while travelling. “And a coffee would be great.”

“Did a good job. Be back in a sec with your coffee,” she told him before walking away with a strong and confident stride, only to return a a moment later with a full mug in hand, along with a glass of water. “Refills are free.”

“Good to know. I’m a bit of an addict,” he said, trying his best to be friendly.

“Aren’t we all?” she agreed. “Haven’t seen you around before. Are you on vacation or just passing through?”

“Just moved here, well, twenty minutes or so out.” He stirred creamer and sugar into his coffee. “Been here for a few months actually, trying to get my new place in shape. Decided it was time to start exploring a bit more.”

“Are you the one who just bought the old McKenzie barn?” she asked. “It’s been vacant for years.”

“That would be me,” he nodded, taking a sip of coffee. And oh, it was good, strong and thick, just how he liked it.

“Barn like that, it’s probably infested with mice,” she continued, showing no indications of leaving.

“Not anymore. Got two cats now, found them under the porch, and one of them is a mice murderer.”

“Well, that’s why we love all love pussy, isn’t it?” She was still smiling and her tone remained friendly, but was studying him closely now. Bucky could read a room, as well as a person, and knew she was testing him. That was all right, he understood tests, and also how to pass them. And passing this one would take very little effort.

“I love me some pussy,” he shrugged, “but I’m also a big fan of sausage as well.” She chuckled and actually winked at him.

“You’re gonna do fine here,” her voice was husky and rough, but also soothing. “Now, do you know what you want or do you wanna hear the day’s specials?”

“Actually,” Bucky decided to take a small leap of faith, see where he landed, “what do you recommend?”

“Are you vegan, vegetarian, or have any food allergies?” she asked without missing a beat.

“Nope,” Bucky shook his head.

“Then the corn beef and hash. Comes with eggs and toast. It’s one of my faves.”

“Can I get a side of bacon with that?”

“You got it,” she nodded. “Now make yourself comfortable, this won’t take long.”

Her name was CeCe, and she co-owned the diner with her wife Tammy, a small wisp of a thing, with curly light brown hair and owlish eyes. They’d been together for over twenty years, and CeCe manned the front while Tammy did all the cooking. CeCe was friendly, outgoing and talkative, curious about the people who visited their establishment. Tammy was generally much quieter, unless there was a rush, when she shouted curses at everyone like a sailor.

Bucky learned this over subsequent visits. He tried other restaurants, found a few coffee houses he liked, a great Chinese food place, and a couple of good pizzerias. But _A Little Bit of Honey and A Little Bit of Spice_ quickly became his favorite. The food was phenomenal, the portions generous, and the specials changed daily. More importantly, they didn’t care if he sometimes brought FB with him, since he was relatively quiet and behaved, as well as a cute motherfucker. He made sure to stop there whenever he drove into Salem proper, and it quickly got to the point where CeCe greeted him with a warm “Heya hon,” before bussing his cheek with a loud smack whenever she saw him, half-shoving and half-shuffling him to a booth while commenting on his hair. Bucky grew to trust her so much he didn’t even bother with a menu, letting her decide for him. Her selections were usually right on the money, except for the one time she placed a plate of the house super-special enchiladas in front of him.

“OK, not a fan of spicy food, I’ll remember that next time,” she laughed while Bucky greedily gulped his water.

If he arrived at just the right time, between the breakfast and afternoon rush, she would go so far as to sit with him for a while, always keeping an eye on her other customers to see if they needed anything, asking him about his pets, how the house was coming along, letting him know about the weekly farmer’s market, and which hardware store had the best paint selections. She liked to talk, about herself and Tammy, her eyes sparkling when she did, life in Salem, and he quickly grew comfortable in her presence, perhaps not a friend, but definitely a friendly face he enjoyed seeing. So much so that when she started asking subtle questions about him and his life, he answered her as honestly as he could.

The best lies were always based on the truth, and while he was now Jared Brian Benton instead of Jacob Benjamin Proctor, he kept most of the details the same, letting her know his parents had been killed in a car accident, the same car accident that damaged his left arm, and how he moved in with his grandmother afterwards while he recuperated, then decided to stay, looking after her until she passed away.

“No other family?” she asked.

“No,” he shook his head. “It was just me and her. Traveled for a while after she died, to get my head back on straight. Stopped here for a bit of a break and to get FB a check-up and his last round of shots, liked what I saw, and decided to stay.” He paused, fingering the rings Becca gave him, which he still wore around his neck. “Still miss her though.”

“Sounds like she was a great old gal.”

“She was, and I loved spending time with her. She was my best friend even more than she was my grandmother and could always make me smile.”

“Got any pictures you willing to share?” CeCe asked softly, recognizing the lilt of mourning in his voice.

“I do,” he reached for his phone so he could scroll through the photos he snapped over the years.

“She looks like a real spitfire,” she laughed.

“All piss and vinegar, right up until the very end.” It hurt to talk about Becca, but there was also something freeing in being able to share his memories of her with someone else.

“You know, if you’re still missing your nana so much,” CeCe began once she returned from checking in on all her other customers, “you should consider volunteering at one of the assisted living centers in the area. Won’t be the same, I know, but it might help. And it’ll be good for you to have something else to do, now that the work on the barn’s almost done.”

“Doing what?” Bucky asked.

“Just spending time with them mostly,” she shrugged. “Not every senior is lucky enough to have a grandson as devoted as you. I know Regency Woodland is always looking for more volunteers. It’s a nice place, where Tammy’s mom spent her last couple of years, and they treated her well.” She paused to refill his coffee cup, before continuing in a much gentler tone. “And it might help ease the ache a bit, and I know it’d definitely help them.”

Which was how Bucky met the Fab Five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is curious as to why Bucky would pick a barn to live in, with the right restoration they can actually become quite beautiful. For example:
> 
> While on the outside, Bucky's new home might look a little something like this (surrounded by a lot more trees):  
> 
> 
> This is what it will look like on the inside once all the work is done:  
> 
> 
> These are the stairs to his loft, with a view of his kitchen:  
> 
> 
> And finally, Bucky's bedroom/sleeping loft once it's finished:  
> 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the mini tour of Bucky's new home and find it as welcoming as he does. =)


	30. 2013-2016 - Jared Brian Benton (a.k.a. Bucky) (Cont'd...)

CeCe was right, and after a brief interview, Regency Woodland was more than happy to add him to their roster of volunteers. The senior care facility was clean and well-staffed, but most of the residents were widowed with their remaining family living in other parts of the country either due to work or marriages of their own. Initially Bucky signed up for the reading program, in remembrance of Becca and the time they spent reading to one another, agreeing to devote three hours of his Monday mornings between five seniors permanently living at the facility.

Isabelle was the first resident he met, smiling at him from behind her spectacles when he walked into her room, insisting he call her Izzie.

“Only if you call me JB,” he smiled back at her.

“Deal,” she agreed with a nod as he sat in the chair next to her bed.

“Now, what would like me to read to you?”

“I’ve always loved a good romance, so how about some Jane Eyre?”

“You got it,” Bucky woke his phone from sleep mode, opened his Kindle app, and started reading.

Aubrey was the second resident he met, a tiny and wrinkled old Chinese woman in her late eighties who needed a cane to walk, but other than that was pretty spritely for her age. After studying Bucky closely for a few minutes, she asked him to read her some Agatha Christie.

Janie was next, a former Vegas showgirl who needed a wheelchair to get around due to severe arthritis, always wearing thick, fishbowl glasses so she could see. Bucky could immediately tell she’d been a looker in her prime, and her smile lit up her entire face as she asked him to read her the latest issue of People magazine instead of a book.

Mary was the sweetest of the bunch, a tall woman of color who turned ninety a few weeks ago, who’d taken a nasty fall and broken her hip, and was now using a wheelchair as a result. She was a former nurse, with a son in the Navy, who, to Bucky’s surprise, requested Stephen King.

Frankie was the last of the group, and the only male. Mostly bald, his face was shriveled as a raisin, with a hearing aid in each ear. He looked as if he were sucking on a lemon when Bucky first walked in, but Bucky quickly discovered that was because he wasn’t wearing his dentures. After a couple of grunts in response to Bucky’s questions, he asked Bucky to read the sports section of the daily paper to him, complaining about the teams the entire time.

They were an interesting group, Bucky had to admit, with very different personalities and reading requests. But CeCe had been right, and they were all grateful for his company, including Frankie, even if he did complain the entire time. Bucky was certain Frankie would complain about water being wet if given the chance.

As the weeks progressed, and he spent more time reading to them, he found he truly enjoyed their company, and signed up for additional volunteer sessions on Wednesdays and Fridays simply because he could. That’s when he really started to get to know them, discovering that in spite of their age, they were a bunch of nosey, trouble-making busy-bodies, especially Izzie, who contrary to her initially sweet demeanor, was the leader of their group and the one who ended up instigating everything that came after.

“You know, I do love a good classic,” Izzie sighed just as Bucky finished narrating Pride and Prejudice, “but I can’t help but wish they were a bit spicier. There are only so many sharp retorts and longing glances I can stand before even I get bored.”

“You sound just like my grandmother,” Bucky smiled. “She taught English literature in high school, and she loved the classics, but she loved a good bodice ripper too.”

“Did she now?” Izzie asked. “What was her favorite?”

“Probably The Flame and the Flower,” Bucky said after a moment. “If we’re talking about the classics.”

“I love a good Kathleen E. Woodiwiss! I used to devour those whenever a new one came out. They were always pretty steamy.”

“They were,” Bucky agreed.

“You’ve read them too?” Izzie was staring at him.

“Oh yeah,” he admitted easily. “I read everything on her shelves when I first moved in, and then started ordering ones of my own once I was done. She read those too. We were both avid readers and that was something else we shared.”

“How very open minded of you,” she was still staring at him.

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” he shrugged. “A good story is a good story. A lot of them are really well written and interesting, including the modern ones. My grandmother loved those too. Especially the…” He trailed off, not sure if this was an appropriate conversation to continue.

“Especially the what?” Izzie immediately wanted to know.

“Um,” Bucky made a big show of turning off his phone and putting it into his pocket. “I think it’s time for me to head on over to Aubrey’s room. I’ll see you on Friday.”

“Especially what ones, JB?” Izzie pressed, her expression rivalling Becca’s best stern teacher face.

“The uh…The gay ones,” he mumbled, hoping she wouldn’t hear. He wasn’t that lucky.

“Really?” she asked, shifting forward in her seat. “And what about you? Do you enjoy those too?”

_Oh Jesus. Why him?_

“Kinda,” he finally admitted. “Since I’m bi.”

“Huh.” Izzie slouched back in her seat, an intense look of concentration on her face, before she nodded. “Well then. Pick your favorite for when you come back on Friday. I love a good bodice ripper, but I was also a Spirk shipper back in the day, and I love reading about a good dicking.”

Bucky was suddenly having flashbacks to Becca and her endless requests for tentacle porn.

And what the hell was a Spirk?

“I don’t know if that’s actually appropriate,” Bucky hedged.

“Now you listen to me young man,” she began in a prim voice, glaring at him over the rim of her spectacles. “I may be old, but I know what sex is. And I’ve had plenty of it so I doubt there’s anything you could possibly read that would actually surprise me. If I want you to read me a gay romance next, then that’s what you’ll read me. Do you understand?”

“Um…”

“Do. You. Understand?”

“Yes ma’am,” Bucky bit his lip. “Do you want a story about gay cowboys or pirates?”

“We’ll start with the cowboys,” she nodded in satisfaction. “And then we’ll move on to the pirates.”

“Yes ma’am,” Bucky rose from his seat and took a step toward the door. “I really um, I really need to get to Aubrey.”

“See you on Friday!” she called to his retreating back.

_I swear to god Becca, you better not be laughing at me wherever you are right now, or I’m gonna let Fart Breath piss on your grave_ , was his last thought as he fled the room.

***

Bucky needed to remember that every action had a reaction, and each decision he made, no matter how inconsequential it may have seemed at the time, had long lasting effects. Which he discovered the following Monday when he returned for his scheduled volunteer session.

“Is it true you’ve started reading trashy novels to Izzie?” Aubrey asked as soon as he stepped through her door.

“I had no idea you were willing to read _those_ kinds of books,” was Janie’s greeting.

“Are there any vampires in that gay love story you’re reading to Izzie?” Mary wanted to know.

“Now listen you! I know I’m old, but I ain’t dead yet! If you’re reading books about doodahs going into other doodahs to Izzie, then you damned well better read them to me too!” Frankie demanded.

“You snitched on me?” Bucky accused Izzie, stopping by her room before he left for the day.

“Don’t be ridiculous, JB,” she answered calmly, folding her hands primly in her lap. He wasn’t fooled for a second. “We were just talking about you the other day, about what a nice young man you are, and I needed to remind everyone that I’m the one you like best.”

“ _He does not!_ ” Frankie shouted from across the hall.

“I though you were deaf!” Bucky shouted back.

“Only when he wants to be,” Janie called from her room.

“And I don’t have a favorite!” Bucky tried.

“We know you don’t, dear,” it was Mary’s turn. “But if you did, we all know it would be me.”

“Stop lying Mary,” because of course, _of course_ , Aubrey had to chime in. “He likes me best.”

“I’m not liking any of you very much right now!”

“Well nobody asked _you!_ ” Frankie shot back. Bucky’s head was starting to hurt.

“Anyway,” Izzie cut in, in her imperious tone. “I just let them all know that I was positive what you were reading to me was much more interesting than what you were reading them. Especially since you do the voices so well.”

“I want to hear the voices,” Janie called out.

“Does he do the heavy breathing?” Aubrey asked.

“If there’s dickin’ and doodahs, then I wanna hear it too!” Who else would that be but Frankie?

“Some dickin’ would be lovely,” Mary added.

“And doodahs,” Janie agreed.

“Is he still taking requests? Because if he is, can we add ladies to the list?” Aubrey requested.

“I wouldn’t mind some lady lovin’!” Frankie joined in.

“Do you see what you started?” Bucky waved his hand toward the door.

“Stop being ridiculous, JB,” Izzie sniffed at him. “Besides, you were the one who brought it up, so really, it’s all your fault.”

“It is not!”

“Is too!” For an old guy, Frankie had some pretty powerful lungs. Bucky squeezed the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“Do you really want me to read to all of you the same books I’m reading to Izzie?” he asked.

“Yes!” four voices simultaneously replied.

“Fine.” Bucky was man enough to admit when he was beat. “I’ll download something new for Wednesday.”

His words were met by cheers, Izzie beaming at him from her royal perch on her bed.

***

It meant an adjustment to his usual routine. While Bucky could readily admit he enjoyed a steamy romance, even he was going to get bored if he read and reread the same section of a story five times in one day. So instead of spending time with each of his seniors individually, he carefully gathered his group in a corner of the common area on their floor before he began that day’s storytelling session. After his time with Becca, he was more than familiar with wheelchairs and walkers, and knew how to escort an elderly person down the hall while preserving their dignity. His seniors seemed to appreciate that about him, as well as the fact they were now each being treated to a three-hour reading session instead of a forty minute one.

Not that much reading got done in all actuality. As unique and strong-willed as they were on their own, put together in a group they grew even more rambunctious, and Bucky often felt as if he were trying to herd cats. They interrupted him constantly, debating plot points or why one hero or heroine was better than another. They cheered during sex scenes or, if it was Aubrey or Frankie, criticized technique. The more outlandish the story, the more they enjoyed it, and pirates led to Vikings led to a werewolf motorcycle gang led to a lesbian vampire murder mystery to an actual story about a cursed dildo to, and Bucky could _not_ believe he was back here again, tentacle porn.

It was like Becca all over again, only times five, and though he grumbled constantly about it, he loved his visits and kept coming back, especially since they all smiled warmly at him whenever he arrived.

Reading books together wasn’t all they did though. They were an opinionated and curious bunch, and more than likely a bit bored, so they shamelessly started asking more and more questions about his life, what he did when he wasn’t there, the barn and his pets, offering their unasked for opinions about everything he told them. Especially his appearance.

“Why is your hair green today? Were you attacked by a bush?” Frankie wanted to know four months after the whole thing started.

“Oh leave him alone Frankie, I think it looks lovely,” Mary smiled.

“I dunno,” Janie squinted at him, “I think I preferred the tiger stripes he had last month.”

“Those were a pain to do, and they were starting to grow out,” Bucky said as he settled in his usual seat. “It was time for a change anyway. I was going for a mermaid theme, but I think I need to add some gold highlights to make it work.”

“You do it yourself?” Aubrey asked.

“Uh-huh,” Bucky nodded, reaching into his pocket for his phone. “Been doing it for years.”

“Why’d you start?” Mary wanted to know.

“For Becca-Bee.” They had asked enough questions and knew him well enough by know that he’d shared with them what he used to call what they thought was his grandmother. “She had really pretty hair when she was younger, bright as a copper penny. But it got white as she got older, and she missed it. When she told me that, I said we could dye it any color she wanted. She picked purple and pink, and I learned how to do it for her. Did the same to mine too, so we’d match. After she died I kept doing it. I like how it looks, and it helps me still feel close to her,” he finished with a shrug.

“That’s ‘cos you’re a good boy,” Mary said kindly.

“Still needs a haircut though,” Frankie grunted, squinting at braid long enough to hang between Bucky’s shoulders. “It’s too long. Makes you look like a girl.” Bucky didn’t care what Frankie, or anyone else thought; it was his hair and he could cut it or grow it however he wanted, a choice he’d been denied for far too long under HYDRA. And no one would ever expect the Winter Soldier to have a long braid with green streaked bangs.

He was also vain enough to admit the color made his eyes pop.

“Not with those shoulders he doesn’t,” Janie winked at him. _Oh Jesus._

“So you’d know how to do that for somebody else, if they asked?” Izzie spoke up for the first time.

“Don’t see why not. It’s pretty easy, and I don’t make too much of a mess anymore now that I know what I’m doing.” Bucky paused to stare at her. “Why?”

“I wouldn’t mind a bit of purple in my bangs,” Izzie answered, forthright as always as she indicated her hair.

“I think some green would be lovely,” Mary said, pointing to her own close cropped, tight white curls. “Maybe in a swirl.”

“Red and gold streaks in mine,” was Janie’s opinion. “I used to wear such beautiful costumes when I was dancing, with these gorgeous feathers. I miss the colors.”

“I wouldn’t say no to some red,” Frankie added.

“You have maybe three hairs on your head, you senile old coot,” Aubrey snapped at him.

“And I want them to be red!” he shot back.

“Fine! Then he’s dying mine magenta,” Aubrey announced. “But not streaks. I want him to do what all the kids are doing these days. What’s it called…Umbrella?”

“Ombre,” Bucky said before he could stop himself.

“Yes, that. I want that. Can you schedule me in for that?” Aubrey asked.

“Um…” Bucky started, then paused. Yes they were old, but just like he told Becca, it was their hair. If they wanted to dye it different colors, then that was their choice. He had the skills and supplies already at home, and more importantly after working on Becca’s hair he knew how to be gentle enough to not hurt them. “Sure. Why not?”

“First thing on Wednesday?” Aubrey was beaming at him.

“I’ll bring my kit,” Bucky smiled back.

“Then me,” Izzie cut in. “Since I was the one who thought of it.”

“Then me,” Mary said.

“Then me,” Janie chimed in.

“What am I? Chopped liver?” Frankie crossed his arms.

“Aubrey and Izzie on Wednesday,” Bucky announced. “Then Mary and Janie on Friday. It’s takes time to get it right, so I can only do two of you per visit. And before you say anything Frankie, I’ll probably be able to do yours on Wednesday as well, cos no offense, but Aubrey’s right, you do only have three hairs.”

“Fine,” Frankie huffed. “But you better not charge me full price then.”

And that was that.

***

Maybe it was the hair. Or maybe one of the staff overheard him reading the extremely graphic Batman/Superman fanfic and that was the tipping point. Perhaps it was the fact that after they complained about the blandness of the food, Bucky started sneaking them breakfast sandwiches from McDonalds and bags of doughnuts from his favorite bakery. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the very enthusiastic but still very slow conga-line of two wheelchair bound residents, one using a walker, and two with canes that Bucky led down the halls while Barry Mannilow’s _Copacabana_ played on his phone. Whatever it was, as much as his group of old folks loved him, the management decided that in spite of how involved and enthusiastic Bucky was, he wasn’t what they were looking for in a volunteer, and his services would no longer be needed.

“It’s not that we don’t like you Jared,” Agnes, the manager, told him when she called him into her office. “It’s just that Regency Woodland prides itself on the care we provide our residents, who are looking for a quiet and comfortable environment in their senior years, and it’s just not appropriate.”

“I see,” Bucky swallowed. He supposed he could understand where she was coming from, but he loved his seniors, and the Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays he spent with them were a highlight of his week. He was going to miss them. “Thanks for giving me a chance. Let them all know I said goodbye.”

“Of course,” she nodded, and then made sure to personally escort Bucky off the premises herself.

“She actually said that to you?” CeCe asked after Bucky stopped by _A Little Bit of Honey and A Little Bit of Spice_ afterwards, looking for a friendly face.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighed, taking a sip of his egg cream. It was his third one.

“What a fucking bitch!” Tammy called from the kitchen. It was late in the afternoon, just before the dinner rush, and Tammy was in the middle prepping everything she would need.

“No kidding,” CeCe agreed. “She must be new, because it wasn’t like that when Tammy’s mom was there.”

“I guess,” Bucky shrugged. “She had a point though.”

“She most certainly did not,” CeCe slammed her hand on the table. “You’re an absolute sweetheart, and any place would be lucky to have you.”

“Thanks,” Bucky slurped some more of his egg cream.

“You could always volunteer someplace else,” CeCe offered.

“Wouldn’t be the same,” Bucky admitted.

“Then maybe at the animal shelter,” she suggested. “Or consider doing hair coloring fulltime. You _are_ very good at it.”

“That’s more of a personal thing, you know. Don’t think I’d want to make a career out of it.” He was going to need to find something to do. The work on the barn was mostly done at this point, with a few remaining details that wouldn’t take up too much more of his time.

“You’ll figure it out,” CeCe assured him. “Just give it a bit. I sure feel bad for your seniors though. They’re definitely going to miss you.”

***

It wasn’t Bucky’s seniors CeCe needed to feel bad for.

Two weeks later, Bucky was at the back of his barn, working on building a chicken coop. He discovered the joy of fresh eggs during one of his visits to the farmer’s market and decided to give keeping chickens a try. It would be a learning curve, but he had plenty of space on his property as well as time, and was really looking forward to those eggs. He was in the middle of constructing a second pen when his mobile rang.

“Hello?” he answered without checking the number first.

“Yes, hello. Is this Jared?” He recognized Agnes’ voice instantly.

“Hello Agnes.” He kept his tone neutral, since she was one of the last people he wanted to talk to.

“Ah yes, hello Jared. I hope I didn’t call you at a bad time?”

“It’s fine. Is there something I can help you with?” He pulled his work gloves off and bent over to give Fart Breath’s ear a good scratch.

“Yes, um,” she hedged. “I was calling about your volunteer sessions here at Regency Woodland.”

_Oh god, now what?_

“Is there a problem?” he asked, shifting his hand to Fart Breath’s other ear.

“No, no, not at all,” she said rapidly. “I was just wondering if you’d be willing to come back?”

“Excuse me?” Bucky stopped his scratching, causing FB to start whining. “But you said I wasn’t what you were looking for.”

“I may have been…a little bit premature in that decision,” she admitted. “You see, while Regency Woodland takes great pride in the care it provides its residents, we also recognize how important enrichment activities are to the seniors living here. After you left, it was brought to my attention what a valuable contribution you were providing.”

“Really?” Bucky asked.

“Oh yes,” she coughed to hide her nervousness. “I received several phone calls, and one very detailed email from one of the family members letting us know how much several of our patients enjoyed your visits, and how I may have been a bit hasty in my decision.”

“Oh did you now?” Bucky felt himself start to smile.

“And then there was the feedback the residents themselves provided,” she continued.

“The feedback?” he repeated.

“Yes, they, um, made sure we understood how much they valued the time you spent with them.” It was then the damn broke, and she continued in a rush. “They started singing prison shanties, at three in the morning, _for hours._ ”

“They what?”

“Never mind the naked relay races.”

“ _The what?_ ”

“Angela threatened to quit after the third time she found Mr. Tremont’s dentures in her make-up bag. And we still don’t know how they’re managing to slip laxatives in all the coffee makers, even the one in the staff room on the sixth floor.”

“They did what now?”

“Then there was the squirrel incident.”

“The squirrel incident?”

“Please don’t ask. Jeremy _did_ quit after that,” she sounded exhausted. “So, um, as you can see, I obviously didn’t have all the facts when I spoke to you that last time. And I was wondering if you’d be willing to come back?... _Please?_ ”

“I can be there tomorrow.” Bucky was grinning from ear to ear.

“ _Thank you,_ ” she exhaled. “They’ll be so pleased to hear that. I’m going to let them know right now.”

As soon as Bucky walked into the common area at nine o’clock sharp the next morning, he was greeted with cheers and a round of applause.

“I cannot believe you guys,” he laughed once it quieted down.

“Hmph,” Izzie sniffed. “They had no idea who they were messing with.”

“It was boring without you here,” Janie added.

“They work for us, not the other way around,” Mary said.

“And my hair needs a touch up,” Aubrey made sure to remind him.

“Never mind that, did you bring them?” Frankie asked.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Bucky swung his messenger bag off his shoulders and reached inside. “Are your dentures in?” Frankie pulled his lips back, revealing an overly white set of false teeth. “Then here you go.” Bucky handed him an Egg McMuffin before distributing the rest of the sandwiches he bought to everyone else.

“You guys really are the best, you know that right?” he asked, while they happily devoured their breakfasts.

“We feel the same about you dear,” Izzie reached over and patted his hand.

“Even if you do still look like a girl with that hair,” Frankie grunted around a mouthful of food.

“I like the silver though. Reminds me of one of my favorite headpieces. Feathers from here to here,” Janie stretched her arms out wide.

“Bet you looked gorgeous in it,” Bucky winked at her.

“Of course I did,” she beamed.

“Right, so, now that that’s settled,” he sat down and looked at all of them; his little cluster of seniors, his Fabulous Five, his heart filled to bursting with both appreciation and admiration. “I started reading a new story the other day, a pretty interesting one, that I think you’re all going to like.”

“Oh really? What’s it called?” Izzie asked as Bucky reached into his pocket for his phone.

“The Ten Tentacles of Love. It’s a ménage, with dragon shapeshifters searching for their mates in the lost city of Atlantis. How does that sound?”

***

Time passed, the days slipping into weeks, and the weeks slipping into months. As 2016 rolled around, Bucky completed the work on his barn, now a home, the final touch being the swing he built for the back porch, where he ate his breakfast in the morning, staring off into the trees with Purrzilla and Catcula in lap, and FB at his feet. He finished the chicken coop and purchased six hens from a local farmer, and while it was definitely a challenge for someone originally born and raised in Brooklyn, the fresh eggs were worth it.

He started doing yoga again, since he missed it, and though it took him a while to remember to focus on his breathing, he relished the calm balance it helped him achieve. He also started running for a few miles every other day, enjoying the fresh crisp air and steady rhythmic pace of his feet slapping on the ground. He traded in his van for a new pickup truck, which handled the roads in the area much better. He then shopped for and purchased furniture, soft, comfortable pieces he could sink into at the end of the day with a good book, while building his own bookshelves and cabinets where he could either display or store the items he kept from Becca’s house in Landing. Once that was done, he went back to whittling, since he really did enjoy it and it kept his hands busy. He made small figurines that he gifted to CeCe and Tammy, which were proudly displayed and earned him kisses on his cheek and a free meal, and built five of his keepsake boxes with their hidden drawers, carefully etching a unique design onto each cover, to give to his friends at Regency Woodland in thanks for standing up for him.

“This is absolutely beautiful, JB,” Izzie marveled, when he showed her how to lift and flip the cover around so the secret compartment popped open. “And you made this yourself?”

“I like working with wood,” he shrugged. “It’s another hobby of mine.”

She was so impressed, she showed it to her granddaughter Rachel when she flew in one weekend for a visit.

“Grammy was right, this is amazing.” There was a strong family resemblance between the two, Rachel almost a carbon copy of a younger version of Izzie.

“It was my way of saying thanks for what she did for me,” Bucky smiled at Izzie. “I’m just happy she likes it.”

“I can’t believe they were stupid enough to try to get rid of you,” Rachel shook her head. “As soon as I found out, I called and then followed it up with an email. Grammy had been telling me about you for weeks, said you were the best volunteer they ever had. And I absolutely love what you’ve done with her hair. It looks great.”

“Doesn’t it?” Izzie beamed. The last time he colored her hair, he carefully intertwined indigo streaks with her white, so every time she shook her head it looked like cresting waves.

“Thanks,” Bucky grinned.

“He’s also single you know,” Izzie added. So that’s why she asked if he would be able to stop by on a Saturday during one of his visits last week.

“Grammy!” Rachel hissed.

“What?” Izzie shrugged. “I’m just saying is all. And I know Mary wants him to meet her grandson the next time he visits. I wanted to make sure you got first dibs.”

“Why do I like you again?” Bucky grumbled at her.

“Ignore her,” Rachel said in the same tone. “She likes to meddle. And I’m already seeing somebody.”

“Who?” Izzie wanted to know.

“I’m not telling, because I really like him so far, and I know you’ll just end up stalking him on Facebook.”

“I would not,” Izzie sounded insulted.

“Uh-huh,” both he and Rachel grunted at the same time, before Rachel turned to Bucky.

“Speaking of which, would it be OK with you if I posted a video of the box on my page? It really is one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen, and I think the rest of the family would get a kick out of it.”

“Just as long as you don’t include any personal information about me. I’m not big on social media,” Bucky agreed after a few seconds. It was just a box after all, with nothing to tie it to him. What could it hurt?

“Oh no, I wouldn’t, I promise. Just a short clip of the box and the drawer.”

“That’s fine then.”

Meddling and attempts at matchmaking aside, Bucky continued to enjoy the time he spent volunteering. He loved their company and jokes, and was patient and observant enough to accommodate their unique needs. He did not know if that was because in reality he was of the same generation, or because he spent so many years with Becca. But just a few weeks later, as he carefully tended to his garden, he realized he had the answer to a question he hadn’t known he asked; what to do with himself now that the framework of his new life was established.

After some research on his computer and a long conversation with one of the staff at Regency Woodland, he decided to enroll in the physical therapy program with a specialization in geriatrics at the local community college, starting in the fall semester. It would take him a few years to complete, and involve a lot of studying, but in the end it would allow him to continue to work with seniors, making their lives better, something he enjoyed and had an affinity for.

When he shared his decision with CeCe and Tammy, and then his Fab Five, they all agreed it was a good fit, followed by how proud they were of him, even Frankie, something that made him blush.

He also couldn’t help but think if, whatever hell his soul ended up in, that motherfucker Karpov knew the seed he planted when he first decided Bucky was going to act as his caregiver, he’d be rolling in his grave, choking on it.

He quickly banished the thought from his mind; that putrid scumbag of a man didn’t deserve any part in the new life Bucky was building for himself.

And it was a good life, he had to admit. A long and sometimes extremely difficult journey, and certainly not where he ever thought he’d end up, but a good one none-the-less.

So much so that one day, in a fit of whimsy, he took a picture of the sun rising over the trees from his back porch, printed it up on cardstock, and mailed it to Greece with a note on the back that simply said, _I am content._

Two weeks later he received a responding text that said, _Then I am happy for you. But my view is better,_ along with a picture of the small port directly outside of Yelena’s café.

He laughed, saved the picture, then put his phone back in his pocket, before whistling for Fart Breath so they could go for their usual walk around the property. He’d have to think of something nice to send her, maybe a box of her own with a small, fluffy kitten etched on the cover, since he knew it would piss her off.

***

So of course, because he was content, looking forward to the future and all its potential, that was when everything threatened to come crumbling down around him like a jagged house of cards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because it's the last day of this fucked up year, I decided to post an extra chapter, hopefully a little bit of sweet to counter all the bitter we've had to deal with. Wherever you are tonight and however you're celebrating, I hope you're warm, happy and safe. Thank you all for being one of the bright spots for me in a not so great year.
> 
> Now with that out of the way, let's kick 2020 to the curb like it deserves:  
> 


	31. 2016 - Jared Brian Benton (a.k.a. Bucky)

“The end,” Bucky read from his phone’s screen before looking up at the five faces staring at him intently. “So, what’d you think?”

“That was lovely, JB,” Janie said.

“I do so enjoy a happy ending,” Mary sighed.

“Definitely better than the last one,” Aubrey agreed.

“I don’t know,” Frankie grumbled. “You said this was supposed to be one of those gay romances, and they just kept talking about knots. What does hair have to do with sex?”

“That’s cos they were werewolves, you idiot! Didn’t you listen to a word he said?” Aubrey snapped at him.

“Then why were they gladiators?” Frankie snapped right back.

“Werewolf gladiators,” Mary informed him.

“But they were astronauts first!” Frankie argued.

“That’s because they touched that glowing rock in the temple on that abandoned space colony they found. Did you forget to turn your hearing aid on again?” Behind her thick glasses, Janie was squinting at him.

“And then Diablo had to travel through time to find Zane so he could finally confess his love at the end,” Aubrey reminded him.

“’Cos they were mates,” Janie added.

“Right, mates,” Mary nodded primly.

“Well that just doesn’t make any sense,” Frankie continued complaining. “If I just confessed my love to my gay, time travelling werewolf boyfriend, why would I shove a ball of hair up his ass?”

“It wasn’t a ball of hair, you shit for brains, it was his knot!” Aubrey shot back.

“That’s what I just said!”

“His love knot!” Aubrey looked like she was about to get out of her chair and start beating Frankie with her cane. It was how she usually looked at the end of one of Bucky’s visits. Bucky was starting to wish he could still get drunk.

“You mean his balls? Then how’d he fit both of them up there?”

“I swear to god, I am never going to read another one of these to you again,” Bucky groaned, only to be ignored so they could continue arguing.

“Don’t you listen to them dear,” Izzie reached over and gently patted his thigh. “It was a lovely story. I especially like how you did the voices this time.” Izzie’s hair was shoulder length and straight, instead of long with thick waves, and her eyes were brown instead of blue. But whenever she smiled at him the way she was now, she reminded him just a bit of Becca, and it was enough to make him smile back. He adored her, adored all of them, which was why he knew he would be back on Monday, with a new story to read, even if they did sometimes drive him crazy.

“Right you lot, it’s time for me to go,” Bucky announced, rising from his chair, reaching for his messenger bag. It was just a little after noon on Friday, and the farmer’s market would be setting up for the weekend. There was one stall run by a professional beekeeper, and they had a lavender infused honey he was addicted to. Another sold fresh preserves, and he loved their blackberry jam, especially on his bread in the mornings. There was a third manned by a baker, and their rolls were his favorite for breakfast, with a thick, crunchy crust and a soft chewy inside; if he got there in time, they’d still be warm. The stall directly across from that one had a maple cured bacon Bucky dreamed of at night.

Once he parked and purchased the most important items on his list, he meandered through the aisles in case anything else caught his eye. The day was bright and clear, but not too hot, and the sunlight felt good on his face, and he really enjoyed sampling what was on offer, always looking for an undiscovered treasure. There were some fresh cheeses that appeared appetizing, and he added half a pound of mozzarella and ricotta to his reusable burlap bag, along with two pounds of dark roast coffee beans. It was as he was browsing the pies a relatively new stall was offering that he felt it, eyes on the back of his neck, their weight an inescapable sense branding his skin.

His Winter Soldier days were long behind him, but the training held true. Someone was watching him, and not out of curiosity or because they thought him attractive. The stare was too intense, too focused to be as innocent as that.

He smiled at the woman running the stall, straightened, glanced over his shoulder and…

_And…_

Mountains crumbled, stars fell out of the sky, the ground cracked open beneath his feet. His only thought was there should be roaring, just like his blood roaring in his ears, his heart pounding in his chest. But there was only silence. The endless echo of it between galaxies, the first snowflake hit the forest floor, the pause before a trigger was pulled, as his eyes met Steve’s for the first time in over seventy years.

Big as that mountain, brighter than those stars, stronger than the ground, he was less than ten feet away at the corner of the aisle, wearing a baseball cap and glasses with thick black frames. The monolith of every single one of Bucky’s hopes and fears, staring back at him, his posture an exact reflection of his own.

Bucky was a creature of instinct, a wild thing whose urges had been refined into deadly skill, and they were screaming at him to run, his weight shifting to the balls of his feet, the servos in his arm automatically tightening in response to his elevated pulse and heartrate. He didn’t know if his serum was on par with Steve’s, never wanted to find out, but he was fast and had the advantage of knowing the layout of the market, all its points of egress, and could be at his truck driving away in under a minute. But then he blinked, the aperture of his vision expanding beyond a pinprick, and actually _looked_ at Steve.

His hands were hanging open and loose at his sides, the bag of whatever he’d purchased forgotten at his feet. His shoulders were as broad as Bucky remembered, but they were trembling, microfine shivers of a just plucked guitar string. His lips were parted, and his ( _blue, blue always so blue_ ) eyes were wide, the irises quivering in a sea of wet. He looked like he used to whenever he felt an asthma attack, a bad one, coming on. The way he had when he learned his mother died. The way he did the last time Bucky saw him, screaming his name, hanging off the side of a train, growing farther and farther away.

Small. Fragile. Unbelieving.

It was not a side of himself Steve ever showed anyone except for a very small, privileged few, an aspect fiercely guarded, the underbelly of his heart, the baring of his soul’s throat. Yet he was revealing it now in the middle of a very public weekend farmer’s market in Salem, Oregon.

Then he spoke.

“B-bucky?”

“ _Not here,_ ” Bucky hissed under his breath, already at his side before Steve finished saying his name, hand on his arm, pulling him through the crowds. Their entire staring contest couldn’t have lasted more than three seconds, for all that it felt as though a century passed, and as of yet no one seemed to have recognized Steve in spite of his pathetic disguise, but Bucky did not want to risk that changing. He needed to get them someplace private before they caused a scene. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Steve, in perhaps the most unlike Steve-way Bucky could remember, allowed himself to be passively dragged along. Bucky wondered how long it would last, and if he could toss Steve in a dumpster before making his getaway.

“Is it…is it really you?” Steve stammered as they drew closer to Bucky’s truck, his voice raspy and weak. Bucky risked a glance over his shoulder, never altering his purposeful stride, to see Steve had gone pale, his eyes even wider. Bucky was again reminded of asthma attacks and how the panic they caused could often make them worse. It shouldn’t be happening; from what Bucky recalled Steve hadn’t had one since he was injected with the serum. But it looked like that’s exactly what Steve was experiencing right now.

And _fuck_ , there went the idea of throwing him in a dumpster.

Bucky made a second split second decision, hauling Steve to his truck, using his remote to unlock the doors, before opening it, shoving Steve inside and then slamming it shut.

“You’re – you’re…” Steve panted from the passenger seat, his chest heaving, once Bucky climbed into the driver’s side, pulling his own door closed.

“Are you having an asthma attack?” Bucky asked, studying him. Steve gulped and shook his head, but his breathing didn’t calm. “Then breathe, c’mon, you know you can. In, one, two three, and hold it, good, just like that….and out, one, two, three. Again…In, one, two, three, hold…and out, one, two, three.” Bucky instructed, demonstrating the rhythm he wanted Steve to replicate, another instinct not thought about in decades, but forever imbedded in the marrow of his bones. And Steve, just like they used to, just like always, synched his breathing to Bucky’s, in the exact same way he had when they were eight and nine, fourteen and fifteen, twenty-three and twenty-four years old. Until finally his panting stopped and he blinked again, his eyes scouring Bucky’s face.

“ _You’re alive,_ ” was what he said when he spoke. “It’s really true. I – I hoped, but even with everything I think a part of me still didn’t believe it until I saw you with my own eyes.”

Bucky sighed and shook his head. “How did you find me?”

“There was the picture and then the box,” Steve began, which didn’t make any damned sense. “Well no actually, first there was the box, then the picture, and then the box again. But then Sam found the mark, and Nat –“

The mere mention of her name made every inch of his skin tighten and hair on his body stand on end. If she knew, then this was _bad_.

“Natalia knows?” He heard the way his voice rolled into the Russian pronunciation of her name and inwardly winced. For all the languages he spoke, he was better at controlling his accents now, but the shift had been automatic, beyond his control.

“Well yeah, of course she knows. She helped me find you, she and Sam.” Steve’s color had returned to normal, his serum doing its work, and it was obvious the rational part of his brain was regaining control. “She actually booked the tickets –“

“She’s here?” And _fuck,_ this was even worse. She was an Avenger, who worked for SHIELD, or what was left of it. They both were. If they somehow discovered he was still alive, came looking for him, that could only mean one thing. He was going to have to give up this life, everything he’d worked so hard for, and go on the run. Abandon the barn, his Fab Five, his plans of starting college in just a few months. If he was lucky, though he doubted it given the way his day was going so far, he’d be able to ditch Steve someplace, hopefully giving him just enough time to make it home, grab his animals, and get the hell out of dodge before they closed in. He would need to stay on the run for a while before starting someplace new, somewhere without an extradition treaty, always keeping an eye over his shoulder in case he was being tailed. He really regretted trading in his van, but he could make it work, he’d started from scratch before.

“Of course she’s here,” Steve said, oblivious to the millions of options and backup plans running through Bucky’s head. “Why wouldn’t she be? She’s –“

“Are you here to bring me in?” Bucky cut him off.

“What? No! What the hell are you talking about, Bucky?” Steve sounded shocked, which was perhaps a positive sign but no guarantee.

“Then why are you here?” Bucky demanded through gritted teeth.

“Because I found out you were still alive!” Steve’s voice was rising.

“How?” He’d been so careful, eliminating all the handlers, then leaving a body whose corpse he mutilated himself so anyone left who could possibly come looking would believe him dead. He and Becca destroyed the fucking book themselves, and he cut all ties to Jacob Benjamin Proctor, making sure to leave no traces, and no one should have been able to link him to Jared Brian Benton. Yet here Steve was, in the cab of his truck, laying waste to all his carefully laid plans.

It was Steve’s turn to study him, his expression unreadable as he analyzed and made his own calculations and conclusions.

“Do you know about Project Insight and the shitshow in DC two years back?” Steve began. Bucky nodded once. “Well, I ended up coming face to face with another super-soldier, one of HYDRA’s. After the dust cleared, we needed to make sure there weren’t any others out there, because the serum is dangerous. Natasha called in a few favors and got her hands on a file, which had information on the original Winter Soldier, along with a photo.” Bucky closed his eyes and shook his head. He hadn’t known about that file, thought he’d been so meticulous in destroying any and all evidence of what had been done to him; but apparently no matter how many of HYDRA’s heads one cut off, they could still bite.

“After I saw that photo, I went looking for your family only to find out there was no one left, except for one grandson,” Steve laughed humorlessly. “And I didn’t want to bother _him_ , since we never met. I reached out to Becca’s nurse instead, because well, because I needed to know if she’d been happy at the end. Flora agreed to see me when I called, because Becca left her something she wanted passed on to me. It was a box with a bumblebee on the cover and a hidden drawer, with another photo inside from her ninety-second birthday. That’s how I found out you were still alive and started looking for you.”

_Goddammit Becca, you couldn’t have just left everything well enough alone?_ he cursed inwardly, pressing his forehead to the steering wheel. Of course she couldn’t; she never had and she never would, even beyond the grave apparently. He’d wondered where the box he made for her had gone, wanting to take it with him when he left, and now he knew. His sneaky sister had been making plans of her own, without any regards for the consequences.

“And now you’re here,” he exhaled, feeling a thousand years old.

“And now I’m here,” Steve repeated. “We just got in actually. Sam’s checking us into the hotel, Nat decided to head on over to Regency Woodland, and I went out to grab us some food when I saw the farmer’s market.”

“Wait a minute,” Bucky straightened in his seat and glared at Steve. “You sent Natalia to my Fab Five?”

“Your what?” Steve blinked at him in confusion. Actually, that might not be so bad. His seniors could take care of themselves, had proven they could, and even the Black Widow wouldn’t stand a chance against them if it was five against one. That bought him some time, but still left him trapped in the cab of his truck with Steve.

“Bucky,” Steve’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Aren’t you…Aren’t you happy to see me? The last time I saw you, you…you…” Steve swallowed and shook his head, unable to go on.

And that was the question, wasn’t it? Was he happy to see Steve?

The truth was, he didn’t know. Steve was and had always been the beat of Bucky’s own heart, his pearl, and Bucky had loved him from the moment he laid eyes on him, even if he’d been too young to know what that meant. But Steve always was, and always had been, a vortex unto himself, and after years and decades of trying to swim against everyone else’s currents Bucky was tired of always fighting the tide and wanted the freedom to just breathe. Steve may have been the one born with sickly and weak lungs, but Bucky’s had been battered and scarred, frozen time and time again while choking on his own and everyone else’s blood. They were still fragile, still learning to savor the freshness and crisp air of his new home, and he didn’t want to give that up, not for anyone, not even Steve.

But Steve was here, had been chasing ghosts to find him, and he needed to deal with that before he decided his next move.

“Steve,” he sighed. “I get why you’re here, I do. But I think you’re going to realize you just wasted a trip.” Steve’s brow furrowed at his words, before he shook his head, once again looking confused.

“Why would I?...Look, is there someplace we can go? Just to talk?” Steve asked instead. Bucky drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, considering. He could bring Steve to _A Little Bit of Honey and A Little Bit of Spice_ , but he was trying to maintain a cover. Red and gold streaks at the temples of his long hair aside, if someone saw him sitting with Captain America, a.k.a. Steve Rogers, they were bound to put two and two together eventually. That was not an equation Bucky wanted to be the sum of. And Natalia was also here; she would more than likely discover his identity and address within the next fifteen minutes, if she hadn’t already. At least this way he would have the however small advantage of knowing his environment. His situation was already fucked, what else did he have to lose?

“Yeah,” he sighed, turning on the ignition, the engine purring to life. “I know a place.”

***

“This is where you live?” Steve asked when Bucky pulled to a stop in front of his home. It was the first thing he’d said since Bucky started his truck, spending the twenty-five-minute drive staring at Bucky’s profile.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, opting not to pull into the garage. He might still need to make a getaway, and it would save him precious seconds.

“But it’s a barn.” Steve kept glancing between him and the barn as he climbed out of the truck and closed the door.

“So?” Bucky gathered his purchases and slung the bag over his shoulder.

“So you have a perfectly nice house in Landing, next to a lake and everything,” Steve went on, ignoring Bucky’s scowl. Of course Steve knew about Becca’s house; he’d probably already visited the place searching for clues. “And we spent plenty of time in barns during the war, usually as a last resort. Why would you want to live in one?”

Bucky was already regretting his decision to bring Steve here. He knew it didn’t seem like much from the front, but that was by design. He’d gone for the traditional look with the exterior, the body painted red, with the roof, front steps, door and shutters on the windows a clean white. Anyone who drove the five minutes from the main road to his property would take one look and think it was nothing more than a basic barn. They wouldn’t notice the security systems he installed, or realize all the windows, not just the ones on the front of the house, were one way and bullet proof. The garage was on the left side and his woodworking shop towards the rear on the right. It looked simple and unimposing, and not really worth a second inspection, which was exactly how Bucky designed it.

But the inside, well. The inside was an entirely different story.

“Wipe your feet,” he said instead of all that as they made their way up the steps, Bucky already able to hear the jangle of Fart Breath’s tags as he rushed to the door to welcome him home. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming. Hold your horses.” Bucky unlocked and opened the door, reaching down to grab FB’s collar as he attempted to dart outside. He was glad to stop by the house, even if it was for the last time. There was no way he would be able to leave FB or Catcula and Purrzilla behind if he ended up needing to relocate.

“You have a dog?” Steve glanced between the two of them.

“Yep,” Bucky waved Steve inside. “And don’t even try it pal. I’m not letting you out there just so you can roll around in another pile of deer shit. You’re stinky enough as it is.”

“Is he friendly?” Steve watched as Bucky shepherded Fart Breath inside then closed and locked the door.

“Usually,” Bucky shrugged. Fart Breath finally noticed Steve and was staring at him, head cocked to the side.

“Hey buddy,” Steve crouched down, holding out a hand to let Bucky’s dog sniff him. Fart Breath studied him in that way universal to all dogs, before his tail resumed wagging and he jumped up to lick Steve’s chin. “Yeah, you’re a good bo- _Jesus Christ! Why the hell does he smell like that?_ ”

“Dunno,” Bucky shrugged, while on the inside he was definitely grateful for his stinky friend. “But neither does any vet I’ve brought him to. That’s why his name is Fart Breath.”

“Fart Breath?” Steve blinked at him.

“Yep.”

“You named your dog Fart Breath?”

“After what you just experienced, are you telling me it doesn’t suit him?”

“No, but,” Steve blinked at him again. “Fart Breath? Really?”

“FB for short,” Bucky stepped past Steve. “And Stinky Motherfucker whenever we’re in the truck together.”

“OK…”

“You want coffee?” Bucky said, making his way toward his kitchen.

“Coffee would be good…Oh.”

When Bucky glanced at him, Steve was standing, Fart Breath forgotten at his feet, as he took his first look at Bucky’s home. While the outside was relatively basic, and only accessible via a small road marked by a gate and mailbox, the inside was the culmination of all Bucky’s hard work and attention to detail. The floors and walls were of pale wood, polished to a high shine that embraced and reflected the golden light pouring in through the windows. Whenever he first stepped inside, Bucky felt as if he were entering his own personal church, except he hadn’t cluttered it with pews or an altar, maintaining most of the open space. There were no walls, only the small island separating the kitchen from the rest of the living area, which he decorated with a sumptuous dove grey L-shaped couch, handmade coffee table, and luxurious teal throw rug. An entertainment system with a large flat-screen television lined one wall, and the bookshelves he built himself lined the other. While he updated the heating during his renovations, he kept the fireplace along the farthest wall, its mantel proudly displaying some of the figures he’d whittled along with a few framed photos. He had a small desk in one corner beneath one of the windows, where the laptop he planned to use for his classes rested. On the opposite side was the kitchen, with its modern appliances and a stacked washing machine and dryer. As Steve’s gaze travelled upward, Bucky knew he was seeing the support beams for the first time, carved from a darker wood than the walls and floor, that matched the banister along the stairway leading to the upper loft as well as the border he built to ensure Fart Breath didn’t accidentally slip and fall from the upper level. The loft itself extended halfway through the entire length of the barn, and contained Bucky’s king size bed, trunk at its foot, closet, bureau and two small night tables, also all built by Bucky’s hand, along with his full en suite bathroom. There were curtains hanging in his windows, and lamps scattered throughout that he turned on once the sun set; so many details saying this was who he was now, and not who he had once been when his choices weren’t his own. He loved his home, loved everything about it, and hoped, but still couldn’t help but doubt, Steve was telling the truth when he said he wasn’t here to drag Bucky in for the crimes he committed while under HYDRA’s control.

“Oh, Bucky, wow,” Steve was circling in place, taking in all the details.

“Still wondering why I want to live here?” Bucky asked, as he started to brew some coffee. He even loved his damned coffee maker; it was a percolator, similar to what they’d used back in the thirties and forties, but modernized and programable, so there would always be a hot cup of joe waiting for him when he woke up in the morning.

“No, not anymore. It’s gorgeous,” Steve admitted, settling himself in typical Steve fashion at one of the stools at the island, removing his baseball cap and glasses, making himself at home. In spite of the warnings blaring in his head, the risk he felt at having someone behind him, Bucky kept his back turned toward Steve. Aside from the crews he hired, once the work on the barn was complete, no one had been inside his home. He’d shown CeCe and Tammy, and his Fab Five photos when everything was finished. Sometimes he drove the hour to it took to get to Portland for the occasional hookup or one-night stand to scratch any itch he may have felt, but those always took place at whatever nightclub he found himself in or his temporary partner’s apartment. But he’d never shared this, his most sacred of spaces, with anyone, and it felt almost too intimate to share it with Steve, especially when it had been so long and their lives had taken such different paths since they last saw each other. It was easier not to face that, or Steve, so he focused on putting his groceries away and filling the food bowls with kibble while he waited for their coffee to finish brewing instead.

FB followed him into the kitchen, and the sound summoned his cats from wherever they’d been napping, probably his bed.

“You have cats too?” Steve asked as the sisters elegantly slinked their way past the island, ignoring Steve, because they were cats, to curl around Bucky’s ankles and purr.

“Yeah, two of them,” Bucky bent over to pet his girls, giving each a good scritch behind the ears. “The grey and white one is Purrzila, and the black one’s Catcula.”

“Purrzilla and Catcula?”

“Don’t forget Fart Breath.”

“Oh believe me, I haven’t.”

When Bucky finished pouring out their kibble, an extra feeding he knew they wouldn’t mind and a distraction he needed, he straightened and finally turned around to look at Steve. And it was worse, so much worse than he feared. All that golden light pouring through his windows, that he loved and cherished, was now bathing Steve. Not only that, but simply by being there, sitting at his kitchen island, Steve was absorbing the light, adding his own inner glow to it, the glow that had always been his and only his, nearly blinding Bucky with his brightness.

And this, _this_ was why Bucky wanted to avoid this for as long as possible. Becca-Bee had called him a pearl, telling him he glowed. But no pearl could compare to the sun’s brightness, and Bucky never wanted to be, was selfish enough to cling to his own light, weak as it was, giving it its own chance to shine, instead of giving it up to someone else to only to be found lacking. The sun was beautiful and golden, but it burned, and Bucky’s life had blistered his soul enough. Could he not have this one small thing, something he carved with his own hands, and get to keep it, in spite of all he’d done? Been forced to do?

_I love you,_ he thought, _I’ve always loved you. But you hurt, you’ve always hurt, and I’m tired of hurting. Please just let me be._

He was so lost in his own thoughts, Steve’s next words surprised him.

“Are you happy here?”

When Bucky blinked, his vision clearing from Steve’s brightness, Steve was once more staring at him with eyes wide and trembling.

“I am,” Bucky said softly, sliding a mug of coffee in front of him. “It took me a long time to get here, but I love my life now. I really do.” He had no idea how much about his past Steve knew, or how much Natalia had shared with him. As good as she was, there were things even she would not have known. Only Becca had, and she took those to the grave with her. He refused to share those secrets with anybody else.

“OK, but,” Steve accepted the mug, spinning it in his hands, “why didn’t you come to see me, or at least send a message when you found out I was alive? I don’t understand. I would have –“

Whatever he was about to say was cut off by the sound of a car pulling up outside. He knew she would come, had known as soon as Steve said she was with them, and hadn’t locked the gate or reset the security code, knowing it would only hold her off for thirty seconds at the most. He might as well get it over with.

“Well,” Bucky said, abandoning his own mug of coffee and heading towards the door. “At least she gave us fifteen minutes.”

***

Her hair was the color of blood, her skin cream and her eyes the green of emeralds, that Bucky could easily see before the door of the grey rental car opened. They’d danced together, killed together, and the last time he saw her she’d been a young woman in the first bloom of her true beauty.

She was even more beautiful now, her movements smooth, easy and fully self-possessed as she stepped out of the car and stared at him. In spite of how her presence threatened everything he worked so hard for, he was relieved to see her. Even in his darkest days, when his sense of self was nothing more than a wisp of smoke curling above a distant horizon, he’d wanted her to be free, just as he wanted Yelena and all his little ballerinas to be free. Only two of them were left now, survivors both, and maybe that knowledge was enough to make all that was to come worth it.

But then again, who knew? There was a mountain at his back, a spider at his front, and he nothing more than the ghost between them.

“So you are still alive then,” she said to him in Russian, stepping forward. She could weave the finest thread into the thickest chain, pull invisible blades from thin air, and make someone cry by merely smiling at them. But she was never one to prevaricate when there was something she wanted.

“Look how beautiful you’ve become,” he said in the same language instead of answering her, as she drew even closer.

And then in a move only a fully trained Black Widow could achieve, she lunged forward, catching him by surprise. But not to take him down, instead wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace.

“You son of a bitch,” she murmured into his chest. “I thought you were dead.”

“Hello Natalia,” he whispered, holding her in his arms, inhaling the soft honey scent of her hair.

“Well at least she didn’t kick him,” a third voice interjected, shattering the fragility of the moment. When Bucky stepped back, letting go of Natalia, he saw a tall, muscular and handsome man of color standing on the opposite side of the car. Bucky knew who he was, but he didn’t _know_ him; Sam Wilson, the third member of Steve’s new team. He was staring at both Bucky and Natalia, a puzzled expression on his face, before he glanced at Steve, who was watching from Bucky’s front steps, with a scowl. “And thanks for the text man, letting us know you were OK.” When Bucky turned back to Steve, he was wearing a matching expression on his face.

“Sorry,” Steve said, though he didn’t look it. “Something came up.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Sam glanced at Bucky again as he shut the door and made his way around the car. “Still not cool though. Next time send a message before you decide to disappear on us, Cap. We thought something might’ve happened to you.”

_I don’t do that anymore. I would never hurt him. Never. And who the hell are you to just show up here and start judging me like that?_ Bucky’s thoughts raced with each step Sam took. There were three of them and he was outnumbered; it was making the hairs on the back of his next stand on end.

“Sorry Sam.” This time Steve actually did sound contrite. “We were just in the middle of coffee and I…forgot.”

“You forgot?” Sam arched an eyebrow at him.

“Coffee would be lovely,” Natalia declared in English, stepping onto his front steps.

“I could definitely use a cup,” Sam followed Natalia. “Wait a minute. Is this a barn? Do you actually live in a barn?” He squinted at Bucky.

“That’s what I said,” Steve laughed. “Wait ‘til you see the inside.” Steve turned and led Sam inside.

“Are you coming, Jared?” Natalia called over her shoulder, letting him no he had no choice in the matter. The decision had been made.

Bucky sighed. It was time to face the firing squad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😎
> 
> Also, to each and every one of you, I wish you nothing but a happy and healthy 2021. You're all so unbelievably kind and deserve nothing but the best, and have really made my 2020 so much more bearable. 😘😘😘


	32. 2016 - Jared Brian Benton (a.k.a. Bucky) (Cont'd...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, because I can, because you've all been so kind and generous with your comments and feedback, and given my year a wonderful beginning, I decided to post an extra chapter this weekend. It's a long one, and covers a lot of ground, but I hope you enjoy where it ends.
> 
> After this, I will go back to posting chapters as I have throughout December, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. 
> 
> **hugs**

“OK, this was not what I expected from the outside,” Sam said as he took in Bucky’s home, while Bucky busied himself with coffee in the kitchen. Fart Breath, usually such a curious and friendly dog, must have sensed the change in Bucky’s mood, and was ignoring the newcomers, keeping close to Bucky’s side. The cats had disappeared; Bucky wished he could join them.

“I know, right?” Steve was saying, while from her perch on one of his barstools Natalia kept her eyes on him.

“Anyway, aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend, Steve?” Sam asked, adding the weight of his gaze to Natalia’s, making Bucky’s skin crawl.

“Right,” Steve nodded. “Right. Sam, Nat, this is James Buchanan Barnes, Bucky. Bucky, this is Sam and Natasha.”

“We’ve already met,” Natalia purred coolly.

“Well, I’m Sam,” he held his hand out. “And I can’t believe I’m looking at Sergeant Barnes of the Howling Commandos, back from the dead.” Bucky did not take the proffered hand, nor did he answer since he was standing right there.

Except…

Except he hadn’t been that man, that Sergeant, Steve’s second-in-command in decades, and it bristled. Already, _already_ they were trying to push him back into a mold that no longer fit, a person he no longer was, each with expectations of their own.

At least Sam didn’t appear to be insulted by Bucky’s lack of response, lowering his hand instead. “So anyway, now what?”

“We were just sitting down when you guys showed up,” Steve picked up his cup of coffee. Bucky hoped it was cold. “Hadn’t had a chance to really talk about anything.”

“You seem to have done quite well for yourself,” Natalia ran a seemingly careless eye over the interior of Bucky’s home. She had more than likely already catalogued every hidey-hole where Bucky stashed weapons and anything else he might need should this very thing occur. She also hadn’t seemed perturbed by his lack of response. A non-answer was an answer, but it was always best to let someone draw their own conclusions, especially when dealing with a Black Widow.

“And what’s with the streaks, man?” Sam continued. “Not that I don’t like them, but it’s not what I would have expected from Bucky Barnes.”

“I haven’t even had a chance to ask him about that yet,” Steve took a sip of his coffee.

“That was probably the point,” Natalia added sugar and cream into her own.

“’K, that makes sense,” Sam shrugged. “But back to my original question, now what?”

“That’s what we were going to start talking about before you showed up,” Steve said.

“Well, happy reunions aside,” Natalia carefully placed her mug on the countertop, “there are definitely some things we need to discuss.”

_And here, here it was._

“What things, Nat?” Steve asked.

“His programming, mainly,” she said, cold and direct, like a Siberian winter, or the hiss of a cryotank sealing shut. Endless, inescapable, a force unto itself.

“Programming?” Steve frowned.

“It’s something both HYDRA and the Red Room were very good at,” she continued.

“Programming?” Steve asked again.

“You read the file, Steve, you know some of what they did, but not all of it,” she explained while Bucky turned his back to them, resting his hands on the edge of his sink. “HYDRA especially likes to ensure the full cooperation of their operatives. To do that, they implement control protocols in the form of trigger words –“

“Trigger words,” Steve was beginning to sound angry.

“Yes, trigger words,” she informed the room calmly. “Once said, they generate an autonomic response in their operative, guaranteeing full compliance. I know you managed to overcome one,” he could feel her eyes on his back, “but there are always more. _Always._ It’s a failsafe.”

“Can they be removed?” Steve immediately wanted to know.

“They can,” Natalia answered. “But it’s not an easy process. It took months to get rid of all of mine, even though I turned myself into SHIELD of my own free will. But we’re going to have to do it again, not just for his safety, but everybody else’s. We can’t afford the risk of someone realizing the Winter Soldier is still alive and activating his programming.”

“Do you we know anybody still trustworthy enough who could do that?” Sam spoke for the first time.

“I do. We’re also going to need a secure facility to bring him to, because it’s not going to be pretty. Once we remove whatever is left of his programming, then we can decide what to do next,” Natalia finished.

While they spoke, discussing him like he wasn’t even there, as if he were a problem that needed to be handled, Bucky reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his cell, swiping it awake and opening a hidden file. Turning around to face them, he held up his phone and pressed play.

“ _Longing_ ,” the recording said in Becca’s voice. And oh, how he missed her at that moment. “ _Rusted. Furnace. Daybreak. Seventeen. Benign. Nine. Homecoming. One. Freight car. Sputnik._

_“You did it, Bucky. You’re free. And we burned that fucking book. Always remember that. And never forget that I love you, big brother, no matter where I am. Your Becca-Bee.”_

He’d been surprised when he received the email two weeks after her death. But Rebecca had always been a smart one, and she knew how devastated he was going to be, so she figured out a way to send him messages of her own from beyond the grave. There was this recording, plus one of her reading an Emily Dickenson poem, another where she read her favorite Shakespeare sonnet, along with several more where she told him how proud she was of him, and how happy she had been during the last years of her life, simply because he was there with her. The sweet sound of her voice, when he never thought he’d hear it again, reminders of her love, to carry with him wherever he went.

He missed her so much sometimes.

Everyone was quiet when the recording finished, three sets of eyes staring at him in shock.

“Was that…was that Becca?” Steve was the one to break the silence.

And that’s when Bucky snapped, his blood turning to fire, rage bleeding out of him like lava.

“You show up here completely unannounced when the only thing I’ve been doing is minding my own business and trying to live my life. Then you decide to come into my house and make yourselves comfortable, like you’ve got any fucking right. Not only that, but while you’re drinking my own goddamned coffee in my own goddamned kitchen, you start talking about me like I’m not even here, when I’m standing in the same fucking room, like I’m a situation that needs to be handled and not a fucking person. I had put up with more than fifty fucking years of that shit with HYDRA, and I don’t know about you,” he sneered at Steve, “but I remember how much you hated it when the nurses and doctors used to do that to you when you were a kid. I don’t need that bullshit in my life, and I’ll be damned if you think you can waltz in here and start treating me worse than some goddamned dog.”

“Bucky, that’s not –“

“ _Get out!_ ” Bucky slammed his metal fist on the countertop, cutting Steve off.

“Bucky, just listen to me,” Steve tried. Because of course he would. He had never once known when to shut up or back off, no matter how obvious the signs were, always pushing, pushing, _pushing,_ so certain he was in the right.

Bucky used to push back, chide and prod at Steve, taking the brunt of it so Steve didn’t have to deal with all the blows the world dealt him. But less than an hour since they first saw each other, and Bucky was already exhausted.

“I’m going for a walk,” he announced, straightening. He couldn’t stand to look at them, any of them, and he needed to get out of there before things got even worse. “You got five fucking minutes. By the time I get back, you better be gone. And I don’t want to ever see your fucking faces again. If I do, you’ll find out exactly what I’m capable of, and it has nothing to do with any of HYDRA’s fucking programming.”

With that he turned and stomped out the door, FB at his heels.

***

Somebody was following him. Bucky did not need his enhanced hearing to know they were as he walked through the woods surrounding his property with FB, trying to cool off. Their footfalls were too obvious and heavy to be Natalia’s, so it was likely Steve, needing to justify his actions. And of course he hadn’t listened to a single word Bucky said; why would he, when he had a point to prove?

Bucky whirled, ready to shout some more, only to come face to face with Sam Wilson.

“Woah, woah, hey, sorry about that, sorry about that,” Sam stepped back and held his hands up and open in a gesture of peace. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” Bucky snarled at him.

“No, I didn’t think I would,” Sam agreed, keeping his hands in the air.

“What are you doing here? Why’d you follow me?” Bucky demanded, glancing down at Fart Breath standing by his side, his attention focused on Sam.

“Honestly, because I wanted to make sure you were OK. And to apologize.” When Bucky didn’t answer him, too shocked by his words to respond, Sam sighed and slowly lowered his hands. “Look, what do you go by now? Steve calls you Bucky, so that’s what we’ve been using, but you never told us what you want to be called.”

“That’s because you didn’t ask,” Bucky snapped.

“You’re right, we didn’t.” Sam’s voice was calm, open, a perfect match to his body language. “And that’s another thing I’m apologizing for, and why I’m asking you now.”

“JB is fine,” Bucky said after a minute.

“Right, it’s nice to meet you JB,” he didn’t offer his hand this time. “I’m Sam, but you already knew that.” Bucky didn’t respond, studying him instead, wondering what game he was playing.

“Look,” Sam continued, apparently unaffected by Bucky’s silence. “I meant it when I said I wanted to apologize. You were right. It was shitty of us to just show up on your doorstep unannounced and start talking about you like you weren’t there. If it was me, I’d be feeling the exact same way you are.”

Well at least that was something.

“You’re obviously doing OK, and like you said, minding your own business and just trying to live your life, which is more than I can say about quite a few people who haven’t been through half of what you have.” When Bucky cocked an eyebrow at him, Sam smiled for the first time, although it was small, weighed down with its own burdens. “I used to be Air Force, and before all this,” he gestured back at the way they came, “I worked at the VA, counseling vets for a living.” So that explained it; he was the heart of their team, and probably here to conduct his own psychological profile on Bucky’s state of mind.

Bucky should have decked him when he had the chance.

“And no, I’m not here to evaluate you without your consent,” Sam said, as if reading Bucky’s thoughts.

“Then why?”

“It’s like I said, I just wanted to make sure you were alright,” Sam reiterated.

“I’m fine.”

“OK,” Sam nodded, readily accepting what they both knew was a lie. Bucky turned and resumed walking, not surprised when Sam started following. His footsteps were much quieter this time.

“I warned him, you know,” Sam continued, about fifty feet later.

“Who?” Bucky asked.

“Steve,” Sam said casually, as if they were just shooting the shit. “I told him there had to be a reason why, if you were still alive, you hadn’t contacted him. That you probably just wanted to be left alone, and I can’t say I blame you.”

“That’s all I ever wanted,” Bucky muttered.

“And I get that, man, I do. You’ve earned it,” Sam agreed. “But you didn’t see him when he first found out you were alive. I’ve known him for a few years, but I’ve never seen his face look like that, JB. The only thing he could think of after that was finding you, Natasha too if I’m honest, and I don’t know if you remember how he gets whenever he sets his mind to something, but nothing was going to get in his way.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Steve for you. He never listens to anything anybody else has to say,” Bucky grumbled, kicking at a rock in his path.

“You’re not wrong,” Sam nodded. They were side by side now so Bucky could observe his face out of the corner of his eye, but Sam wasn’t crowding him or attempting to invade Bucky’s personal space. “But he’s a good guy, one of the best I’ve ever met, and it comes from the right place.”

Bucky knew that too, better than anyone, but it didn’t mean it was easy to deal with.

“But you guys were good friends, according to Steve,” Sam went on, when Bucky didn’t say anything. “And just like him, I lost a close a friend too, so I can understand why he’s acting the way he is. He doesn’t know what to do, there’s no handbook for something like this. And I also know how happy he is to see you again. He just wants to make sure you’re OK, Nat too, even if they handled it in the worst way possible.”

“I didn’t ask any of you to come here,” Bucky said.

“I know you didn’t,” Sam nodded. “And I know you don’t know me from a hole in a wall, but I’m asking you to just talk to him. Give him a chance to see for himself that you’re OK. I’d owe you one if you did.”

“And if I don’t want to?” Bucky stopped walking to ask.

“Then that’s your decision and you have a right to it,” Sam said without missing a beat. “And I’ll make sure we’re gone by the time you get back to your house.”

“Yeah right,” Bucky scoffed. “As if anybody can make Steve do anything he doesn’t want to.”

“Oh trust me, I can,” Sam grinned at him. “You spend as much time as I have in shitty, cramped motel rooms with someone and you pick up plenty of blackmail material. I can get them out of your hair if that’s what you want. But I’d consider it a personal favor if you gave Steve just an hour of your time.”

“And if I did, you promise you could get them to leave me alone after?”

“If that’s what you want, then you have my word,” Sam swore. Bucky studied him, searching for the lie, the tell, the hidden trap. Sam was right, they didn’t know each other, and perhaps Sam was an even better liar than Natalia could be. But his body language remained loose and open, and Bucky could not read any deception in his features or voice.

And Steve was here; it was probably inevitable that eventually they came face to face. Better to get it over with sooner rather than later, so Bucky could figure out what he needed to do next. Then again, he was still too furious to think clearly, and that was always a dangerous state to be in when dealing with Steve.

“I need to think about it,” he said eventually.

“Fair enough,” Sam agreed easily. “Thanks for hearing me out. I’ll just head on back to the house, if that’s OK with you?”

“That’s fine,” Bucky turned and continued on his way, Fart Breath trotting at his side. “Just watch out for the bears.”

“Bears? What bears?” Sam asked, but Bucky had stalked off into the woods, already hidden by the trees. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Let him stew on that. Steve wasn’t the only one who knew how to be a little shit.

***

By the time Bucky returned to the barn, several hours had passed and the sun was starting to set. He’d calmed down enough to think straight, and realized it was time for him to deal with the situation. Only once he did would he know what he needed to do next.

The three of them were sitting on the steps of his back porch when he emerged from the tree-line, not quite huddling, but close to it. Steve was the first to see him, immediately rising to his feet and moving forward.

“Bucky, I –“

“Hey _JB_ ,” Sam called over him, emphasizing the name Bucky gave him, cutting Steve off. “You alright?” Bucky nodded. “Steve was wondering if you could talk, but _only if_ that’s OK with you.” It looked like Sam was keeping his word, and wasn’t that a surprise?

“Right, right,” Steve’s shoulders slumped, but he kept his eyes on Bucky the entire time.

“It’s OK,” Bucky said, while Fart Breath scampered past Natalia and Sam and up the steps. Bucky followed, opening the door so FB could dash inside. “You two go on in, there’s soda and iced-tea in the fridge.”

“Bathroom?” Sam asked.

“First door on the left. But don’t get too comfortable,” Bucky warned.

“Understood,” Sam nodded. “C’mon Nat. And Steve, remember what we talked about.”

“JB, I –“ Natalia began as she rose to her feet.

“Not now,” he said in Russian, shaking his head. “And maybe not ever.” He was calmer, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still angry. She merely nodded once, before she turned and followed Sam inside. Bucky pulled the door closed, took a deep breath and faced Steve.

“You wanted to talk.” Bucky tilted his chin at the steps, sitting down.

“I’m sorry,” Steve blurted almost at once.

“For what exactly?” Bucky asked.

“For showing up out of the blue, and then talking about you like you weren’t here, or didn’t have a say,” Steve started to explain. “Sam really laid into me and Nat while you weren’t here, and I never meant to make it seem like I was trying to take away your autonomy. But I don’t know anything about what you’ve been through, except for what Natasha told us, and it’s my job to make sure people are safe.”

“I’m not a job, Steve, or a situation that needs to be handled,” Bucky said, watching as Steve began to pace, which was not a habit he’d had before.

“I know,” Steve admitted, running a hand through his hair. “But you were dead, and then you weren’t, and I don’t know anything about anything anymore. Not even what to call you.”

“You could’ve just asked,” Bucky reminded him.

“I know, and I’m sorry.” Steve stopped pacing, facing Bucky directly. “But you were dead, and now you’re not.”

“Yeah I know. It surprised me too,” Bucky admitted. “Still can’t believe it myself sometimes.”

“But you’re really OK?” Steve pressed. “I’m not asking for details, nothing you don’t want to share, but after everything, you’re doing all right?”

“I am,” Bucky answered truthfully. “Still have the occasional bad day or nightmare, probably always will, but Becca and I managed to work through the worst of it, so for the most part, yeah, I’m OK.”

“Thank god,” Steve exhaled, everything in him deflating like a balloon.

“Thanks for having so much faith in me,” Bucky grunted. “And sit down already. You’re making me tired just looking at you.” Steve sat, or more accurately dropped like a bag of potatoes, on the steps next to Bucky.

“Sorry,” Steve sighed.

“So you keep saying.”

“’Cos I am.”

The sun was setting, the trees’ shadows growing longer and longer the more they sat there. Beside him, Steve was quiet. He doubted there wasn’t more Steve wanted to say, know, ask, but for as brilliant a strategist as he was, able to think on his feet and make split second decisions, sometimes even the world famous Captain America needed a moment to regroup. Bucky allowed it, Steve’s silences as familiar to him as his intensity, even after all this time. Steve would speak his mind eventually, he always did.

“Are there really bears out here?” Steve asked, not the question Bucky was expecting.

“What?”

“Bears,” Steve repeated. “Sam said you told him to look out for bears. Is that true?”

_Oh._ “Supposedly, although I’ve never seen one,” Bucky shrugged.

“What have you seen?”

“A couple of coyotes, a few deer. Think I heard a mountain lion once, though I can’t be sure.”

“Huh.”

“Is that what you really wanted to know? If there are bears in my backyard?”

“No, but I have no idea where to start. What’s OK to ask,” Steve said, just as his stomach growled.

“The mountain lion sounded just like that,” Bucky stated dryly.

“Shut up.”

“When was the last time you ate?” Bucky wanted to know.

“Breakfast on the plane,” Steve glanced at his watch. “About ten hours ago.” Bucky chewed on his lip, carefully weighing his next words.

“What about some dinner before you go?” he asked. “Nothing fancy, but at least you won’t be hungry.”

“You don’t have to,” Steve said quietly, shaking his head. “We’ve interrupted your life enough already.”

“I know I don’t have to, but I’m still offering. For old times’ sake, if nothing else.”

“I wouldn’t say no to some food,” Steve conceded, a bit too quickly in Bucky’s opinion. But he had offered.

“Right then, c’mon,” Bucky rose to his feet, just as Sam’s voice called out, “ _Jesus fucking Christ! Why the hell does your dog smell like that?”_

***

Dinner that night was chicken parmesan, accompanied by a salad and some fresh bread. It wasn’t fancy, but it was filling and Bucky knew he was a good cook. The overall atmosphere was quiet, no one saying much once Sam and Steve offered to help, which Bucky refused, shooing them out of his kitchen. Bucky never entertained company, so he didn’t have a dining table, and they ended up eating at his kitchen island.

At least no one complained about the food, but Bucky realized his mistake as the silence continued. Natalia was silent, but studying him, not bothering to hide it. And Steve kept glancing between Bucky and the rest of the house, his expression shifting from one of curiosity to intent, and Bucky knew he was getting his second wind. No good deed went unpunished after all, and this time Bucky had no one to blame but himself.

Bucky thought he might, just might, be in the clear as they all made their way to the door when Steve blurted, “Can I stay the night?”

“Steve,” Sam grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Did we not just talk about this?”

“No, I know, but it’s late and the roads are dark, and there’re bears out there,” Steve stated as if it were obvious.

“That’s what you’re going with?” Bucky shot back.

“No, it’s not.” Steve straightened his shoulders and met Bucky’s gaze dead on. “I spent six months searching for you after thinking you were dead. I just found you and if you think I’m going to just walk out that door after all that, you’re out of your damned mind.”

“You got a hell of a lotta nerve, Rogers,” Bucky crossed his arms.

“You look me in the eye, James Buchanan Barnes or whatever the hell you’re calling yourself now, and promise me you’ll still be here tomorrow morning and not halfway around the world under a new identity, and I’ll leave.” Big or small, Steve had never been intimidated by Bucky, or anyone else for that matter, and he certainly wasn’t now, in spite of Bucky’s glare. And whoever they were now, they had once known each other better than anyone else, and Steve could see the lie on Bucky’s lips before he had the chance to speak the words.

“Right,” Steve nodded sharply, just once, before turning and stomping back into the main area of the barn. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

“I don’t have a guest bedroom,” Bucky said through gritted teeth.

“That’s fine. We can share a bed, we’ve done it before.”

“The hell we will,” Bucky snarled just as Sam hissed, _“Steve!”_

“Then I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Well, there are bears out there after all,” Natalia spoke up for the first time, joining Steve on the couch. “And our bags are still in the trunk.”

“I can’t fucking believe –“

“One night,” Steve cut Bucky off. “Just one night, that’s all I’m asking for.”

“No it’s not and you damned well know it,” Bucky countered.

“Maybe not,” Steve shrugged. “I guess we’re just going to have to wait until tomorrow morning to find out.”

“Steve!” Sam tried again.

“And in case you’ve forgotten, I’m your best friend,” Steve spoke over Sam. “Or at least I was once, and I can’t just…I can’t,” Steve swallowed and clenched his jaw, “I can’t just leave if I don’t know you’re still going to be here tomorrow. After everything, you owe me at least that much.”

“He doesn’t owe you anything, Steve,” Sam interjected. But Steve was in full stubborn mode, and unless Bucky was willing to set the barn on fire, there was no way he was going to leave.

“Six months, Sam. And before that, it was five years. Just let me have this. _Please._ ”

It was the please that did it; for all the hardships he endured growing up, Steve so rarely asked for anything for himself. Even after Sarah died, Bucky had practically needed to force Steve to agree to live with him so he wouldn’t starve to death. And now here he was, asking for something, granted with his usual obnoxiousness, but the Bucky of then and apparently the Bucky of now still found it nearly impossible to say no to him. He could give him his one night; Steve was right, it was probably his last one in Salem anyway.

“Fine, you want one night, you got it,” Bucky threw his hands up in the air. “But you keep your asses down here. If any of you even think about coming up into the loft, I will shoot you.”

“And just how many guns do you have in the house?” Natalia asked sweetly.

“You’ll never know,” Bucky turned toward her. “But I can promise you, my aim is as good as it’s ever been. And I never miss. You of all people should remember that, Natalia.”

She merely shrugged in response.

“Thank you,” Steve said, ignoring their exchange, looking extremely smug.

“So I guess I’m getting the bags from the car then?” Sam asked no one in particular.

“That would be great Sam, thanks,” Steve nodded at him. “Just watch out for the bears.”

“I swear to god, I understand why he didn’t want either of you to find him. I’m feeling the exact same way right now,” Sam mumbled as he walked out the door.

“Is there a shower we can use?” Steve asked, smiling as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Bucky wanted to punch him in the face.

“No,” he lied, not caring that they knew it. “Just the sink and the toilet down here. You’re going to have to make do.”

“That’ll work,” Steve shrugged. “But thanks for the hospitality.”

“You’re very welcome. I hope you choke on it,” were Bucky’s last words before he stomped up the stairs and into his bedroom.

***

No one slept that night. Even though the house was silent, still and dark, and they were all pretending, no one got any sleep.

Well, maybe Sam did, if the sounds of his light snores were any indication.

After he’d stormed upstairs, in a fit of pique and because his mother made sure to instill manners in all her children, Bucky grabbed some sheets from the trunk at the foot of his bed and tossed them over the railing without a care where they landed. Steve responded with a chipper little, _“Thanks!”_

When he peeked over the edge not too long later, he saw they discovered one part of his sectional folded out into a bed and were getting themselves settled. When Steve glanced up and caught him looking, he smiled and wiggled his fingers at him.

In retaliation, Bucky made sure to take an extra-long shower, knowing and not caring they would hear the water running. As he towel-dried his hair, he heard Steve mutter, “Jerk,” and couldn’t prevent his smile.

That had been hours ago, and though he’d been laying in bed for at least two of them, Bucky could not sleep. His mind kept racing, reviewing, shifting and rearranging his options while he checked his phone for countries without extradition treaties. Steve was still here, Natalia was still here, and in spite of Sam’s promises, he knew he needed to abandon this life and start someplace new. Not what he wanted, but except for a few brief years with Rebecca, when had life ever given him what he wanted? He needed to start preparing.

He began by sending a text with his burner phone.

**555-555-1234:** _She’s here. Terminate this number and destroy phone._

He didn’t think Natalia tampered with or even knew about this phone, but he didn’t want to put Yelena at any risk because he’d fucked up somehow. She’d know who he was referencing and how to protect herself.

He thought that would be the end of it, and was surprised when his screen almost immediately alerted him to an incoming message.

**Blocked number:** _Do you need extraction? Can be there in 12hrs._

That was certainly not what he’d been expecting. This was unlike Yelena; she never did anything unless there was something in it for her.

**555-555-1234:** _Not necessary atm. Relocation imminent._

**Blocked number:** _You will check in 1x every 24hrs. If not, I will assume worst and come._

Bucky was so shocked, after a day filled with them, he was unable to stop himself from what he sent next.

**555-555-1234:** _Why?_

Yelena’s reply took slightly longer this time.

**Blocked number:** _I never got to thank you for the earrings._

**555-555-1234:** _I didn’t give those 2 u expecting thanks._

**Blocked number:** _And I am not offering this expecting any either._

**Blocked number:** _I would miss your stupid postcards. They make excellent toilet paper._

That was practically a love letter from Yelena and though his situation remained dire, it shifted something inside of him. At least one person in the world knew him for who he truly was, and was concerned for his welfare.

**555-555-1234:** _Thnx. Will check in 24hrs._

**Blocked number:** _Do not forget._

Smiling, he lowered his phone, grateful for this one small bit of luck. It didn’t change his current circumstances though, and he needed to remain prepared, certain if given enough time Steve and his team would find some reason to drag him in. And then he would be right back where he started and just as fucked.

As his clock clicked over to five a.m., Bucky knew he wouldn’t be getting any sleep and gave it up for a lost cause. Moving silently, he pulled on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, and made his way down to his kitchen to prepare himself a cup of coffee. He could see in the dark and knew every inch of the barn, so he did not need to turn on any lights. Fart Breath’s nails clicked on the floor as he followed him out onto the back porch, settling at Bucky’s feet when he sat on his swing. Purrzilla and Catcula joined him shortly after, curling up into twin purring balls on his lap. He smiled at his little family, here with him like always. He could share this one last sunrise with them, just like he had that morning with Becca in Landing, before he once again left it all behind.

Unsurprisingly Steve joined him a few minutes later, his steps nearly as silent as Bucky’s as he stepped out onto the patio.

“Is it all right if I join you?” he asked quietly.

“Do I even get a say?” Bucky shrugged with a fake nonchalance.

“Of course you do.” Steve took another step forward, not looking at Bucky but staring out at the trees instead. The stillness in him was new, not something Bucky could remember ever seeing before. Steve held it for a moment, and then another, before he sighed and dragged a hand through his hair.

“I keep messing this up,” he eventually began, his voice low. “I don’t know what I’m doing and everything I say just seems to make it worse, and that’s the last thing I wanted.”

“What did you want?” Bucky asked.

“To see you again,” Steve answered immediately, turning around to face him. “You were dead, and the last time I saw you we were on a train and I was reaching for you, but I didn’t make it in time and you were gone. But somehow you survived and I don’t know why you’re so surprised I would come looking for you as soon as I found that out. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I don’t know what I thought,” Bucky admitted.

“From what I can tell, you seem to think I’m here to either arrest you or drag you away from your life.”

“Aren’t you though? You’ve supposedly seen some file and I’m sure Natalia’s told you more than enough. Isn’t that what this is really about?” Bucky challenged him.

“ _No!_ ” Steve hissed. “It’s not.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I fucking missed you, you jerk!”

“I’m not him, Steve,” Bucky shook his head. “I’m not the kid you grew up with, or the guy you shared an apartment with, or your sergeant from the war. He _did_ die, and I’m what’s left.”

“Are you still my friend?” Steve asked. And that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? A question even Bucky didn’t know the answer to. Steve simply was, a constant presence in his life, whether he was Bucky, the Winter Soldier, Jacob or Jared. He had always been there, a groove forever etched into his mind. And Bucky didn’t know what to do with that, if he wanted to do anything with that, and so he had done nothing instead.

“I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “Things are different now.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Steve crossed his arms and leaned against the porch railing. “One minute I’m on a train in Alps,” a muscle twitched in his cheek, saying everything he couldn’t, “and then less than a month later I’m crashing a plane into the Artic, because it’s the only option. I close my eyes thinking it’s my turn to die,” this time it was Bucky’s eyebrow that twitched at his words, “only to wake up what feels like a minute later in a new century, where absolutely nothing is the same, everyone I once knew and loved dead. Two weeks after that, fucking aliens invade New York, and I’m put in charge of this new team of people I don’t even know, and suddenly it’s on all the news I’m still alive, and I keep getting told there’s an _image_ I have to maintain. A few months after that I move to DC to try to get my head on straight and figure out how to get used to this new world. Yeah, I met Sam and Nat, which was probably the _only_ good thing since I woke up, and then Project Insight happens and I find out HYDRA is not only still around, but the fucking head of the World Security Council, a former US senator, is their leader. Then it’s a year of chasing those Nazi assholes down while still trying to figure out the difference between Siri and Yelp. So yeah, Bucky or JB or whoever you are now, I know things are different. I’ve had five years of all those differences shoved down my throat.”

He hadn’t raised his voice once while speaking, the quiet of the morning remaining undisturbed except for the sound of Bucky’s cats purring and the chirp of the crickets. But Steve didn’t need to; his tone and the gimlet glint in his eyes was louder than the roar of an ensuing battle. Five-foot-four or six-foot-three, Steve still carried the force of Goliath in everything he did or said.

“Siri’s what you use when you want to hear a song or re-watch a clip on YouTube. Yelp’s for when you want to order Chinese food.” Bucky may not have been Goliath, or even David, but he’d always been pretty good with a slingshot.

“What?” Steve blinked at him.

“I’m just saying, is all,” Bucky shrugged. “You said you didn’t know what the difference was. That’s it. Although I would avoid using both of them if I were you. They track everything you do.” Bucky knew how to hit a target, take down a foe with a single shot. But with Steve, whenever he aimed in the past, his goal was never to hurt or kill, but knock him out of his own head. It appeared as if that was another skill he still possessed.

“All that, everything I just said, and _that’s_ what you got out of it?” Steve asked.

“You were the one who brought it up,” Bucky retorted.

“I can’t fucking believe you!”

“What?”

“Bucky!”

“Why don’t you say that a little louder? I don’t think they heard you in Australia.”

“Oh my god!” Steve was glaring at him, his lips pinched, fists clenched.

“If you keep staring at me like that Rogers, your face is gonna get stuck that way.”

A shiver, a tremor, and it was if all of Steve’s strings were suddenly cut, and everything, _everything_ in him suddenly loosened, going lax.

“And you say you’re not the same,” he chuckled, shaking his head.

“I’m not. Doesn’t mean you’re not still an idiot though,” Bucky scowled at him.

“God, I fucking missed you.” Laughing, Steve came over and slumped into the opposite end of the porch swing, causing it to start rocking. The cats glared, but didn’t move from Bucky’s lap, and Fart Breath couldn’t have cared less.

“The only one,” Steve went on after a minute, still smiling. “You were always the only one who ever called me out on my bullshit or could make me laugh when I needed to.”

“What about Sam and Nat?” Bucky asked.

“They’re good people,” Steve said quickly. “And I love them both to death, but…”

Yeah, _but_.

CeCe and Tammy were good people, as were his Fab Five, and even Yelena. And just like Steve, Bucky loved his cobbled together little family to death. _But…_

They weren’t Steve.

And Sam and Nat weren’t him.

And wasn’t that just a kick to the head?

“Do you want a cigarette?” Bucky asked in an attempt to distract himself.

“No, but I’ll take one if you got a spare,” Steve answered. Bucky reached into the pocket of his hoodie, where he’d also stashed his phone, a glock and a small knife, for his packet of cigarettes and lighter. He lit one for himself, before passing them over to Steve, who did the same.

“Still smoke then?” Steve handed the pack back to Bucky, then stared at the lighter, a Zippo Bucky picked up in Louisville.

“Not really.” Bucky re-pocketed the cigarettes. “Just one every once in a while. Usually just when I need to think. Them shits are expensive now.”

“Everything’s fucking expensive now,” Steve said around his own exhale of smoke.

“No kidding,” Bucky grunted. Sixteen years living as a free man in this new millennium and the cost of a carton of milk still sometimes caught him off guard. He imagined it was even more shocking for Steve, who hadn’t been awake as long as he.

“Can I ask you something?” Steve voice cut into his thoughts.

“You just did,” Bucky couldn’t help himself.

“Jerk,” Steve huffed. “But…can I?”

“Go ahead.” And Bucky knew what he was going to ask before he ever spoke the words.

“Why didn’t you come for me?”

And there it was, the most important question of all. The real reason Steve was here.

“It’s just, if our situations had been reversed, I know that would’ve been the first thing I did when I heard. Hell, I’m here now, aren’t I?” Steve pressed.

“I don’t know that you would have, Steve,” Bucky said, but there was no heat, no anger in his words. “And I know that I look like him, but I’m not. Or maybe I’m what’s left. Some days I don’t even know.” Bucky shook his head. Here, in the quiet of the morning, beneath the soft kiss of the twilight sky, it was time for Bucky to cut his own guts open, one last time, with all its bloody truths and ugliness.

“But I was with HYDRA, their slave, for more than fifty years. And the things they did to me, the things they made me do, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Every single second of my existence was a fight to just fucking breathe. I wasn’t even there in my own head, and it was still a fight.” Fifteen years in the past, and those fifty-five years still burned whenever he thought about them. 

“But then either the planets aligned, or someone wasn’t paying enough attention, or maybe even just luck, and I saw my chance to get free and took it. I got away, but it was ugly, especially at first. There was so much shit going on in my head and body, and if not for Becca I don’t know if I would have survived. I don’t remember most of it, even now, but I had to detox from all the drugs they had me on and relearn how to eat solid food. After that, it was all the fucking programming and remembering how to be a person again. I was free, but it was still a fight, every single goddamned step of it, and it took _years_ before I could hear a Russian accent and not want to shit myself or remember I didn’t have to ask permission to go to the bathroom, that I had choices.

“By the time I started to feel whole in my own skin again, there were other things I needed to do, even though I was still recovering, still fighting to figure out who I was.” That was all he was going to say about those years, the need for vengeance, to remove the threat, running parallel with the fear he would get caught, or they’d find out about his sister somehow. “Then it was just me and Becca for a while and those were some of the happiest years of my life, where I got to just be and really figure myself out. We were happy together and I don’t regret any of it.

“And then one day I turn on the TV to find out aliens are attacking New York, and there you were in the middle of it, fighting. Becca wanted me to contact you, but I didn’t, ‘cos she was ninety-one by then and needed looking after. And then she got sick and it was another fight,” _the fight of his life,_ he didn’t say, “because I wanted to make sure she was as comfortable as possible before she died, even though it was killing me inside. Letting her go was probably the hardest thing I ever did.” He needed to stop to swallow the tears choking his throat, the pain of her death suddenly immediate and harsh.

“I’m so sorry Bucky,” Steve whispered.

“It’s all right,” he said, wiping the tears from his cheeks, even though it wasn’t. “But then it was another fight, to get my shit together and figure out what to do next. I travelled a bit, until one day I drove into Salem, liked what I saw and decided to stay.” He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, turning to face Steve for the first time since he began speaking.

“But I’m tired of fighting, Steve. I’ve had over sixty fucking years of it. One of the very first things Becca made sure I understood was I have choices now, that I don’t have to fight or follow orders if I don’t want to. And I don’t want to fight, not those types of battles anymore, and that’s my choice, and I have a right to it.”

And now it was time for another truth, another gush of blood and chunk of bone for them to choke on.

“And you, you’re all about the fight, always were. As soon as you woke up, you were right back in the middle of it, fighting, cos that’s who you are. And that’s your choice, and you have a right to it. But I’m not that guy anymore.

“So if you want to know why I didn’t contact you as soon as I heard, it’s because I knew if I did, I’d be dragged back into it all over again. And I didn’t want that. And that’s _my_ choice, and I have every right to make it, same as you have the right to make yours.”

It was finished. He was done. Whether it was enough for Steve or not was irrelevant at this point. Steve wanted the truth and Bucky had given it to him. It was up to Steve now what he did with it, but Bucky wasn’t going to change his mind.

Steve was the one who looked away first, staring at the tree line, at the ripples of blue, purple and red that were blossoming as the sun slowly rose, his jaw tight but his gaze far away.

“Is that what you think?” he finally asked once the world returned to its axis and a million stars had died. “That I’m here to drag you into a fight or take your choices away from you?”

“Isn’t it though?”

“ _No!_ ” Steve shot back, too quick to be anything but truthful. “It’s not. And I wish you would give me some more damned credit than that. You want to talk about choices, let’s talk about choices. All our lives, from the day we met, you were the only one, _the only one_ who let me have mine. You argued with me when you thought I was making a stupid one, but even when you did, you respected my right to make it. I know that, I’ve always known that, so I don’t know why you think I wouldn’t do the same for you. You don’t want to fight, then you don’t have to fight, of course you don’t, that thought never even crossed my mind. Because this was all I ever wanted for you,” Steve gestured at the trees, the porch, FB and the cats in Bucky’s lap.

“For you to be happy and have a good life. You deserve it, more than anyone I know, and I would never dream of taking that away from you, would fight anyone who tried so you wouldn’t have to. You’ve earned this, Bucky, and if you’re happy here then I’m so fucking happy for you. I just wish…” Steve cut himself off, clenching his jaw, shaking his head.

“You just wish what?” Bucky pressed when he didn’t go on. It took him a minute, and then another, and Bucky could see he was struggling to find the words. Sometimes finding the right ones was the hardest thing a person had to do. Words were so small and emotions so big, especially when it came to truths.

“You talk about choices, and not having any.” His voice was the voice of a little boy lost in the woods, with the big bad wolf behind him and the witch’s cottage in front. “Maybe you weren’t the only one not given any. Or maybe if I had known you were still alive, I would have made different ones.”

“What?” Bucky asked.

“I’m not all about the fight, you know,” Steve said. “If there’s something that needs to be done then I’ll do it. But it’s not all I am. I don’t know how much you remember, but I hope you remember at least that much.”

He was right. As much as their lives had been about fighting, against poverty, Steve’s sickness, bullies, being Irish and Catholic during a time when that was not looked kindly upon, then Nazis during the war, there was more to Steve than that, always had been. As Bucky cast back into his memories, he remembered laughter, stories shared, sleepovers, adventures and Steve’s willingness to always try new things. Artwork on the walls of their crappy apartment, trips to Coney Island, Steve sharing a meal at his family’s table, and endless debates lasting late into the night. Listening to music, sharing a shaved ice, sitting on a fire escape on hot summer days in an attempt to escape the heat.

Being in love with a boy who had next to nothing but was always willing to share what little he did have because you were his friend and his happiness was your happiness was his. His last truth, as yet unsaid and forever to remain so.

There was so much more to Steve than just the fight, and Bucky _had_ forgotten that, hurting him as a result.

“I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it more than anything he ever said before.

“It’s all right,” it was Steve’s turn to say.

“No, it’s not,” Bucky shook his head. “You’re right, Becca was right, I should have contacted you sooner. But I wasn’t ready Steve.”

“And I get that, I do.” There was a small smile on Steve’s face, a seedling newly planted. “But…”

“But?” Bucky asked.

“Can you at least admit you’re happy to see me?”

“Yeah,” Bucky smiled, his first real one in over twenty-four hours. “I can admit that.” He leaned over and nudged Steve’s shoulder with his own.

“Thank you,” Steve sighed, nudging him back, looking more relieved than such a simple gesture warranted. They fell quiet after that, sitting together on the swing while Bucky sipped at his now lukewarm coffee. Eventually Purrzilla grew bored with Bucky’s lap, stretched, then climbed off his thighs and onto Steve’s. To his surprise, Steve let her.

“She’s a pretty little thing,” Steve held out his hand so Purrzilla could sniff his fingers before he began stroking her forehead.

“Found her and Catcula under the barn when they were just babies. Raised them myself.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Steve smiled.

“Spoiled though.”

“She’s a cat. Aren’t they all?”

“Suppose,” Bucky shrugged, studying Steve as he sat there with his cat. Pretty as a picture and something too easy to get used to. “So what do we do now?”

“According to Sam, we should probably hug or some shit,” Steve rolled his eyes.

“Oh god, is he one of those?”

“He’s big on talking things out.”

“Yeah, I get that from him,” Bucky admitted. “Seems like a decent guy though.”

“He is,” Steve agreed. “One of the best.” Steve stopped stroking Purrzilla, and in protest she grabbed his hand with her paws, just the tip of her claws peeking through, to indicate he wasn’t done. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you really are a spoiled brat, aren’t you?” Steve scritched her ear, while glancing at Bucky out of the corner of his eye. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Go ahead.”

“And just know that this time, I’ll accept whatever your answer is.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky cocked his head, wondering if Steve noticed the gesture.

“I swear it.”

“All right,” Bucky said, hoping he wasn’t going to end up regretting it.

“You said you’re not the Bucky you used to be, and I get that, I do. And I’m not the same Steve you knew either,” he began quietly, almost shyly. “But I gotta say, from what little I’ve seen, I like the Bucky you are now. And I was wondering if it would be OK with him if I stuck around for a few days to get to know him better. I could stay here, or even in a hotel if that’s too much for you, and only if it’s really OK, but I really would like that chance.”

Bucky sat and thought about it. This time Steve’s request didn’t set off any warning bells in his head or fill him with the overwhelming urge to flee, get away, run.

And it might be nice to spend some time with Steve, see if they could still be friends. Bucky didn’t have many friends in his life now, more than he originally thought, but not many, and one more couldn’t hurt. Becca had set all of this in motion after all, and his sister was usually right. If nothing else, if they ended up parting ways it wouldn’t be with any animosity and hopefully no regrets.

“Just you?” he asked just to be sure.

“Just me,” Steve agreed quickly.

“What about Sam and Natalia?”

“Sam and Natalia can stay at the hotel,” she said from behind the screen door. Bucky didn’t jump, knowing she was there, had been for the past two minutes. Steve didn’t jump either, so apparently he heard what Bucky had, silent as she’d been.

“Then yeah, that would be OK,” Bucky finally agreed.

“A week?” Steve asked, glancing between the two of them.

“We don’t have anything pressing at the moment, and if something comes up me and Sam should be able to handle it.” She tilted her head in Bucky’s direction. “But only if that really is OK with you.”

“A week’s fine,” Bucky nodded.

“Then that’s settled,” she smiled before turning her attention back to Steve. “Now, you’ve had your turn. It’s mine.”

“Do I need to be worried?” Steve asked.

“No, he’s armed,” she grinned at Bucky. “And I’ve only got my coffee cup.”

“Like you don’t know twenty-six ways to kill me with it,” Bucky snorted.

“Thirty actually,” she said to him.

“What?”

“He may not be the same man either of us remember, but he’s not a fool,” Natalia ignored Steve and stepped out onto the porch. “If he was, he never would have been able to escape HYDRA and remain hidden for this long.”

“You’re _carrying?_ ” Steve looked flabbergasted.

“Duh,” Bucky snorted. So did Natalia.

“Now shoo,” she waved a neatly manicured hand at Steve. “It’s my turn.”


	33. 2016 - Jared Brian Benton (a.k.a. Bucky) (Cont'd...)

Once Steve retreated into the barn, after carefully putting Purrzilla down with one last glance at both of them, Natalia sat on the porch swing, mug of coffee cradled in her hands. Unlike Steve, she faced him, tucking one leg under the other, for all appearances as relaxed as his cats. But she was and had always been more tigress than kitten, and just as dangerous as Steve, for all she was half his size.

“What do you want me to call you?” she asked in English, sounding sincerely curious.

“Bucky is fine here, but anywhere else, I go by either Jared or JB,” he eventually decided, knowing she would remember and always use the correct name. She smiled her small, secret little smile at him.

“That’s what Steve said you would say,” she said in response to his arched eyebrow. “It appears he still knows you pretty well, in spite of everything.”

“Do you still go by Natalia, or do you prefer something else?” it was his turn to ask.

“For most people it’s Natasha,” she answered. “But it’s all right if you still call me Natalia. You’re one of the few people who actually pronounce it correctly.”

“Then good morning, Natalia.”

“Good morning, Bucky,” she said in response before staring at him some more. He wondered what she saw, what details her sharp mind was gathering merely by looking at him, and which approach she was going to take as a result.

“I buried your body, did you know that?” was what she opened with. Bucky did not know what he’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that. But then again, all the Black Widows were trained in the art of espionage and information gathering, altering their approach depending on their goal. He was confident enough he and Steve had reached the heart of the matter, but he was still unsure of what Natalia was after, her true motives and if he could trust her the way he trusted Steve. They were day and night, Steve and Natalia, although equally unstoppable when they set their minds to something, and he would have to tread very carefully if he hoped to come out of this conversation with his skin intact. He needed to remember that.

“What body?” he asked, keeping his voice even and his gaze steady upon her. And oh, how easy it was, even all this time later, to pull every trick he learned at HYDRA’s hands to maintain a cover, release the genie from the lamp to wrap its arms around him.

“The one you left behind in Kiev for me to find,” she said, forthright and direct. “The one that once I identified would convince anyone else who might be interested you were dead.

_I didn’t know it would be you. I thought it might, but it was my last mission and I needed make sure no one had a reason to ever come looking for the Winter Soldier. Because he was dead after that,_ he thought but didn’t say while she continued to study him with her piercing green eyes.

“You’re missing the point,” she continued after a few more seconds of that intense scrutiny. He did not respond. It was always better not to give anyone, but especially not Natalia, any answers that could end up being used against you.

“All right,” she sighed into his continuing silence. “We can play this game until the cows come home, and you’re very good at it, much better than anyone ever gave you any credit for. But I’m not here to play any games with you, Bucky, or trick you into revealing a truth you don’t want to tell, although I am very curious.” Of course she was; for all of her skills at stealth and seduction, she had always been curious. It was a big part of what made her so good at her job. Present her with a question with no answer, and she was always going to dig deeper than anyone else until there was no stone left unturned, even one buried six feet deep. It was a natural aspect of her personality, one refined and sharpened to a deadly point, and for someone in her line of work, secrets were more valuable than currency.

“Then why are you here?” he asked, as Purrzilla jumped back onto the bench and into his lap.

“Because Steve wasn’t the only one happy to find out you were still alive,” she answered with a small smile. But this smile, this smile was real. He remembered seeing it on her face when she was nine years old and she finally managed to flip the knife in the exact way he demonstrated. Eleven, when she broke free from his hold and successfully swept his feet out from under him. Twelve, when together they completed a perfect pas de deux. Fourteen, when for the first time in her life she tasted chocolate gelato. How bright eyed and fierce she had been during those moments, when she was already a master of keeping every single thing about her perfectly controlled. Something in his heart had creaked like the rigging of a galleon back then, and later, only after Becca and the trigger words were gone, did he recognize them for the true gifts they were. Too brilliant and wild a creature to be kept in a cage, and that was why, while he could not free her, he gave her a key to the first lock, hoping she would one day use it.

She had, and now the entire world knew the ferocity of Natalia Alianova Romanova when she was free to make her own choices.

“I don’t see why,” he shrugged. “It’s not like you have any reason to be.”

“Oh knock it off,” she nudged his thigh with her sock-clad toes. “We both know you’re the only reason I’m here today.”

“You did all the work yourself, Natalia,” he shook his head. “I just gave you another option. You didn’t have to take it. That was all you.”

“Which I never would have, if not for you.”

“Stop selling yourself short,” he argued. “You were always smarter than that.”

“And you should take your own advice,” she countered. “You were kind Bucky, to me, to all of us, when kindness was nothing more than a word I had no context for. If you think that didn’t make a difference, then you’re a shortsighted fool, and I know you’re not.”

“If you say so,” he grudged.

“I do.” She was still smiling at him, and her eyes were softer, less assessing than they’d been when she first stepped out onto the porch. “Which is why, going back to my original point, I buried your body. The man I knew as the Soldier deserved better than to be mass cremated as a John Doe.”

“No he didn’t,” he shook his head again.

“On that we’ll agree to disagree.” She leaned back against the arm of the porch swing, making herself comfortable.

“Can I ask where you buried me?”

“Bucharest,” she answered simply, causing him to chuckle. “It seemed fitting.”

“Guess so.” He supposed he could see the logic in her choice.

“I didn’t know your name then, so I had your tombstone inscribed with _Dear Friend._ ” That caused him to jerk, shocked by her words. And she saw it, of course she did. Whatever game they were playing, she was better at it and he could not allow himself to forget that.

“You were,” she assured him, her gaze passive for all intents and purposes, but he knew not to trust that either. “Which is why I helped Steve find you. And why I’m here now.”

“Not to drag me in for reprogramming so you and some other suits can decide how to use me next?” There was no fury in his voice this time, only the cold, endless flatness of his callsign. She sighed.

“I should apologize for that,” she admitted. “But even more so than Steve, my job is to take into account and prepare for all the possible variables. I know what you’re capable of better than Steve does, and it was a risk I had to prepare for. You dropped off the radar for fifteen years –“

“Shouldn’t that have told you everything you needed to know?”

“-and I needed to be sure you were no longer a threat to anyone else. It’s my _job,_ ” she countered.

“You’re not my handler.” He kept his own body loose and open, avoiding the temptation to reach into his pocket and take hold of his knife, not to use, but for the comfort it would give him.

“No I’m not,” she agreed. “And I never intended to be. I have no intentions of forcing you to do anything against your will. First off, Steve would kill me himself if I tried. And secondly, I only wanted to make sure you were truly free, just like you did for me. I had no idea you managed to overcome all the trigger words, even though it shouldn’t have been possible without the right kind of help.” She paused then, staring at him, obviously waiting for him to elaborate.

“For once in your life, you’re going to have to learn to live with not knowing.” He would not give her this; this secret was for him and Becca alone.

“Fair enough,” she conceded easily, too easily in his opinion. “But I am sorry. Sam wasn’t wrong when he said we handled this entire thing badly.”

“I’m starting to think Sam’s the only one out of all of you with any common sense,” Bucky grumbled.

“I can’t take any credit for that,” she grinned. “Steve was the one who found him.”

“I bet Sam’s ruing that day.”

“He has his moments, I’m sure.” She nudged his thigh with her foot again. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Oh god, you and Steve,” he moaned.

“It works, doesn’t it?”

“That remains to be seen. But sure, go ahead,” he said, suddenly desperate for a second cigarette.

“Why didn’t you come to me?” she asked, cool, calm and controlled. But also with a spark of the curiosity he’d always been able to see in her, even as a little girl. He merely stared at her, the way he used to stare at Karpov, at all his former handlers, when he knew their innocuous questions were really tests.

“Right, right, fine, back to this,” she waved a hand at him. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, and aren’t going to say anything that could possibly indict yourself, especially not to the Black Widow. But I still know what you did. There’s no evidence, and I’m not here to find any, and believe me when I tell you that anyone who even suspected thought you were doing all of us a favor. But you didn’t have to do it alone. I would have helped you, _gladly_ , and after everything you did for me, I just can’t help but wonder why you didn’t.”

“Because,” and this answer was easy to give, “you would have dragged me back to SHIELD. You’re not stupid either Natalia. You know they never would have let someone with my skills go. It would have been switching one collar for another, with an even shorter leash, and I’m done with people using me to do their dirty work.”

“Fair enough.” At least this time she did not lie and try to convince him there would have been any other outcome. “It was smart of you, especially considering everything in DC two years ago. I just wish you would have trusted me more than that, because believe it or not Bucky, I’ve always considered you a friend. I still consider you a friend, even if you don’t feel the same way.”

Instead of reaching into his pocket for the cigarette he was still desperately craving, he ran his fingers over Catcula’s fur instead, stroking the silk of it, feeling the rumble of her purr beneath his palm, while he considered her words. He thought she was being honest, or as honest as possible for her. The little girl he had danced with and trained to kill, who was now a woman who buried his body and helped Steve track him down. He didn’t know if he should be grateful for the help she offered Steve, but he wasn’t resentful either.

And just like with Steve, he was glad to see her again, the person she was now, even if her choices were ones he never would have made. But that what it was about, wasn’t it? Choices, and the freedom to make them, even if he disagreed.

“Do you still dance?” he asked her once the rapids of his thoughts smoothed over into an easy flowing current.

“Yes.” This time when she smiled it was obvious his question pleased her.

“Good.” And it was. Swans should fly.

“Do you?” It was her turn to ask.

“No, not since then,” he shook his head. “I do yoga instead.”

“Yoga?” Somehow her voice managed to convey both her disappointment and delight.

“Been doing it for years,” it was his turn to smile at her. “At first because it was so different than anything before, and it helped. Now, because I love it.”

“Then I’m happy for you,” she said over the rim of her coffee cup as she took a sip, as from within the house came the murmur of a soft conversation. Apparently Sam had finally woken up. “But…”

“Hmm?” he asked, taking a sip of his own now long gone cold coffee.

“You might want to give it a try again. You were always very good at it, and I would love the chance to dance with you one more time, now that we’re both free.” When he lowered his mug to fully take her in, he could almost see her, the Natalia he once knew, one of his little ballerinas, with the calm, cool indifference she wrapped around herself like a cloak to conceal the incandescent spark that was hers and hers alone. He had known her once, perhaps better than anyone else for all their acquaintance had been fleeting. And while he did not know her now, he could still see it, brighter than it had ever been, despite what she’d been through. That little girl had grown, but the core of her was there and he found himself wanting to get to know her better, not as partners but as a possible friend. If she would allow him. If he would allow himself.

“Maybe one day,” he told her, knowing she would be able to hear what he was unable to put into words. This time her smile was warm and wide.

“Um, guys, sorry to interrupt,” Steve said from behind the screen door, causing them both to turn towards him. “But Sam’s finally awake, and we were both wondering what you wanted to do for breakfast?”

Bucky was about to respond, but before he could, there was a shriek from inside the barn followed by Sam’s voice shouting, _“Why the hell is there a dead mouse in my sneaker?”_

***

“That’s a chicken coop?” Steve asked for what must have been the fifth time as Bucky once again stood on his back porch, being stared at by three sets of bemused gazes.

Bucky didn’t bother answering, since they’d gone over this already, rolling his eyes instead.

“But why?” Steve pressed.

“For the chickens.” Maybe if he said it really slowly it would sink in.

“You have chickens?” It was Sam’s turn. Bucky was seriously reevaluating his opinion of the man’s intelligence.

“Yes,” Bucky drawled. “That’s why there’s a chicken coop. Because I have chickens.”

“But why?” Steve asked again. At least Natalia was keeping her mouth shut; she really was the smartest one out of all of them.

“Because chickens lay eggs.” Bucky wondered if cue cards would help.

“Yeah but,” Steve was squinting at the chicken coop. “You can get eggs at the supermarket.”

“And where do you think those come from?”

“I know where eggs come from, Bucky.”

“Are you sure about that, Steve?”

“I’m just saying, why are you bothering with chickens when you can just pick them up from the supermarket? Even I have to admit supermarkets are way better than what we had growing up,” Steve still looked confused.

“Yeah but fresh eggs are better,” Bucky tried to explain.

“Isn’t an egg just an egg?” Sam asked.

“You’ve obviously never had fresh eggs,” Bucky turned on him. “They are _so_ much better. Definitely worth all the hassle of dealing with chickens.”

“Hassle?” Steve repeated. “What hassle? They’re just chickens.”

“You think it’s easy, keeping chickens?” Bucky crossed his arms.

“How hard can it be?” Steve mirrored his position. “ _You’re_ able to do it, after all.” And there was the little ulcer-causing shit Bucky remembered, as annoying as he ever was.

“Right,” Bucky drawled, uncrossing his arms and tossing the wire mesh basket he’d been carrying at Steve, who caught it easily. “If it’s so easy then go ahead, be my guest.”

“Really?” Steve did what he always did when faced with a challenge, jutting out his chin.

“Really.”

“Fine then,” Steve nodded.

“Fine.”

“C’mon Sam,” Steve stepped off the porch and started striding toward the coop.

“Me? Why me?” Sam asked, following.

“Are you telling me the Falcon is afraid of a few chickens?” Steve called over his shoulder.

“And if you don’t help, you don’t get breakfast,” Bucky decreed, then glanced at Natalia. “Any of you.” She sighed and trailed after Sam.

“I’m not afraid of chickens,” Sam shot back. “It’s just…don’t eggs come out of chickens’ asses?”

“Do they?” Natalia spoke up for the first time.

“You’re about to find out,” Bucky said, reaching into his hoodie pocket for his cell. “And make sure you check all the nests.” He was definitely going to record this for posterity’s sake.

“You’re hilarious, Bucky!” Steve shouted, opening the door to the coop.

_And you are fucked_ , Bucky thought, raising his phone and hitting record. This was going to be good.

***

Twenty minutes later, Steve was cowering behind him, scratches on his face, a cluster of feathers in his hair and, if Bucky was not mistaken, one sticking out of his ear. Sam, his shirt and jeans ripped, and now missing one sneaker, was in the nearest tree, clinging to the lowest branch as if his life depended on it, hurling curses at Bucky’s chickens, Bucky himself, and, most of all, Steve. Natalia, once again proving she was the smartest one out of all of them, after losing a clump of hair had bolted to the rental car, locking the doors and rolling up the windows. She hadn’t come out since.

Bucky was laughing so hard his stomach hurt, while around him five of his six hens pecked at the ground.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Steve panted from behind Bucky. “I didn’t know chickens were evil.”

“What the hell man?” Sam shouted from his tree, while the smallest of his hens, a golden bantam, ruffled her feathers and squawked angrily at him. “Are those fucking Chitauri chickens?”

“How hard can it be, right?” Bucky mocked, arching an eyebrow at Steve.

“Oh yeah, smarty-pants?” Steve was back to crossing his arms. It was hard to take him seriously when a feather fell out of his hair with every word. “Then how the hell do you do it?”

“Because unlike some people, I don’t just dive into a situation blindly,” Bucky could not help but feel smug.

“Steve, Steve, please tell me you brought your shield with you, because I think she’s getting angry again! She’s looking at me funny!”

“Oh really?” Steve ignored Sam.

“Yes really.”

“Can chickens fly? Please tell me they can’t fly! Please!” Sam begged.

“Then prove it,” Steve glared at Bucky.

“Watch and learn.” Bucky brushed past him and back into his kitchen, where he grabbed the container in the nearest cabinet just for these purposes, popping the lid. Then he calmly walked back outside and tossed a handful of feed in the farthest corner of the pen. Immediately the chickens ran towards it, even the bantam threatening Sam. While they were distracted, Bucky scooped up the discarded mesh basket from the ground, walked into the coop, and collected that day’s eggs, a good amount and more than enough for breakfast for all of them. When he emerged, Steve was glaring furiously at him, but it was offset by the feathers still in his hair.

“There, see,” Bucky held up the basket. “Fresh eggs.”

“You couldn’t have mentioned that trick sooner?” Steve accused him.

“And you could’ve asked,” Bucky retorted.

“You never said anything about asking!”

“I never said you couldn’t,” Bucky made sure to smile his most saccharine sweet smile.

“I swear to god, James Buchanan Barnes –“

“Is it safe to come out now?” Natalia called from where she had cracked the car window open an inch.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Bucky answered. “Steve’s the only one you have to watch out for, and she usually calms down once she’s fed.”

“Me?” Steve asked. “Why am I the one you have to watch out for?”

“Not you. Steve.” Bucky pointed to his smallest hen, the one who had terrorized Sam, terrorized all of them actually, still greedily pecking at the feed Bucky tossed.

“You named the chicken Steve?” Sam, still clinging to his tree branch, asked at the exact same moment Steve blurted, _“Why the hell did you name that chicken Steve?”_

“Of course I did. She’s small, blonde, and always getting into fights, even with people ten times her size. What else was I supposed to call her?” Bucky finished with a shrug.

“You named your chicken Steve?” Sam repeated. He sounded as though he was having trouble breathing. A quick glance revealed he was struggling between laughing and not falling out of the tree. “ _Really?_ ”

“It does fit,” Natalia said as she joined them on the porch. “What’s the dog called?”

“Fart Breath,” Bucky answered.

“ _Fart Breath?_ ” Sam squeaked.

“And the cats?” Natalia wanted to know.

“Purrzilla and Catcula,” Bucky informed her. “Catcula, the black one, is probably the one who left the mouse in Sam’s sneaker.”

“Those were brand new!” Sam was back to shouting.

“It just means she likes you,” Bucky glanced at him, and yep, he was still in the tree.

“By leaving me dead things?”

“She’s a cat, it’s what they do.”

“Huh,” Natalia wrinkled her nose. “That makes sense. First aid kit?”

“Under the kitchen sink,” Bucky held out the basket of eggs to her.

“I can’t believe you named a chicken after me,” Steve growled as she walked around him toward the door, basket in hand.

“You’ve still got feathers in your hair,” Bucky ignored his glare and pointed at his head. “Now go help Sam out of that tree. I’m going to go cook us some breakfast.”

***

“So?” Bucky asked, once all the feathers were removed from Steve’s hair, breakfast cooked and they were all sitting at his kitchen island.

“Yeah, OK,” Steve admitted, albeit begrudgingly. “I get it now. These taste just like the eggs from when we were kids.”

“Told ya.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sam grunted, although Bucky couldn’t help but notice he was on his second plateful. “I still don’t know where my sneaker is.”

“Steve’s probably dragged it back to her nest by now,” Bucky shrugged.

“Are you sure you wanna stay here?” Sam scowled at Steve.

“Yeah, I am.” The change in his tone of voice was instantaneous, a fluttering of wings, the softness of a springtime rain. Bucky didn’t know what to make of it, nor was he given a chance, because not too long after that, the food was finished, the dishes washed, and Sam and Natalia were carrying their bags out to the rental car.

“See you in a couple of days, but don’t forget to check in every once in a while, OK?” Sam told Steve once he shut the trunk.

“Will do,” Steve nodded.

“And it was nice to meet you, JB.” This time when Sam held his hand out, Bucky took it.

“Same,” Bucky said, meaning it. Once they let go, Natalia came over to him, rising on her tiptoes to press a kiss to each of Bucky’s cheeks.

“I hope we get to dance together again soon,” she said in Russian.

“I do too,” he answered honestly, smiling at her.

“Good,” she nodded. “And good luck. Not that I think you’ll need it.”

“What?” he asked. But it was already too late; she was in the car, closing the door, waving at the both of them as Sam drove off.

“So now what?” Steve said into the following silence. And that was the question, wasn’t it?

Now what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - Here be 🐔🐔🐔.
> 
> 😉


	34. 2016 - Jared Brian Benton (a.k.a. Bucky) (Cont'd...)

Now what involved Bucky basically going about his day. There were tasks he needed to complete around the barn, and if Steve was being sincere and really wanted to get to know him, there was no better place to start.

The first being the coop and his mini flock of chickens.

“Um,” Steve hedged, peering over his shoulder. “We really gotta go back out there?”

“They’re just chickens, Steve,” Bucky said, walking toward the coop.

“They’re _evil,_ ” he hissed.

“I can’t believe Captain America is afraid of chickens,” Bucky uncoiled his hose. “Besides, Steve is the only one you really have to watch out for. The rest of them are pretty sweet. Stupid, but sweet.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Stop whining and come on and help me refill their water tank. Chickens need plenty of water or they can get sick.”

After they took care of the hens, sweeping the floors, making sure there was enough fresh food for them to eat, checking the nests were clean and dry, then observing their behavior for a few minutes to ensure they were energetic and healthy, Bucky turned to his garden.

It was quiet work, that Bucky enjoyed taking his time over, and while meditative it wasn’t particularly exciting, and he realized Steve was more than likely going to quickly become bored.

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve merely shrugged when Bucky voiced his thoughts. “I’m not bored, and even if I were, I can take care of myself. You don’t have to entertain me.”

“If you say so.” Bucky had his doubts. When they were younger, Steve never liked sitting still, didn’t have the patience for it, even when he was sick. Bucky’s life was relatively quiet by design, and while he had plenty of things to keep him busy, unless he was in Salem proper, they were solitary activities. He wondered how long it would take before they started arguing or Steve grew frustrated enough to call Sam and Natalia to come pick him up.

Bucky spent the next hour giving Steve a tour of the barn, showing him the garage and even the woodworking shop, which Steve studied carefully.

“How much time do you spend in here?” Steve asked as he looked around.

“Coupla hours a day, depending on how busy I am.” While not large by any means, there was plenty of room for Bucky’s workbench, a few saws and his tools, and it had two large windows to let in plenty of light. “If I’m not in here, sometimes I’ll sit on the porch and whittle for a few hours just to keep my hands busy.”

“It’s nice,” Steve smiled. “And you were always really good at it. I’m glad you finally have a space of your own to work in.”

Once Steve’s curiosity was satisfied, Bucky packed a backpack with some fruit and water bottles, and took Steve on a tour of his property, Fart Breath at his side. Bucky enjoyed walking through the woods, the quiet that wasn’t really quiet but so different from the ambient noise of a city. It was midsummer, so the leaves were green and there were plenty of birds, the air filled with that smell of the West Coast Bucky so treasured now. Steve didn’t say much as they walked, asking the occasional question about the wildlife or peering closer whenever Bucky pointed out a track in the dirt. It wasn’t quite comfortable, but it wasn’t uncomfortable either, and at least their environment, along with FB, provided plenty of distraction.

It was early evening by the time they returned to the barn, and while they’d snacked while they walked, Bucky knew they would both need a big meal to make up for the day and satisfy them for the night.

“Can I take a shower?” Steve asked as Bucky stood in his kitchen, flipping through his recipe cards, trying to decide what to cook.

“Yeah sure,” Bucky put the box down on the table, “let me get you some towels.”

“Is that,” Steve reached for the metal tin but stopped before his hand made contact. “Is that Aunt Winnie’s recipe box?”

“Yeah it is,” Bucky smiled. “Becca-Bee still had it and when she died, I took it with me. It’s OK. You can touch it,” Bucky answered the unasked question on Steve’s face. The hinges and edges were rusted, with small dents on the surface, and the lid squeaked when Steve lifted it open, but he still handled it carefully, as if it were something precious and sacred that needed to be kept safe.

“I haven’t seen this in years, well, no decades actually, I guess,” he murmured with a smile of his own. “But I remember Aunt Winnie always flicking through it, especially right before Sunday dinner.” He picked up one of the yellowed cards, squinting at it, his smile growing wider as he read what must have been a familiar recipe.

“Becca-Bee made a few additions of her own, but if you see anything you want, let me know and I’ll make it.”

“You can make your Ma’s meatloaf?” Steve asked, looking as eager as a puppy. Bucky mentally reviewed the contents of his cabinets and refrigerator, and nodded.

“Yeah, I should have everything I need. Now c’mon, lemme go get you that towel, cos you still smell like chicken shit.”

“Jerk,” Steve snorted, following Bucky up to the loft for the first time.

“Oh wow,” Steve said while Bucky dug through one of his trunks for a towel. “This is really nice.”

“Thanks. Designed it myself.”

“Really?”

“Don’t sound so shocked,” Bucky grumbled out of the corner of his mouth, holding a towel out to Steve. “Bathroom’s behind that door.”

“No, it’s just, it’s really, really nice – _Holy shit,_ look at the size of that tub!”

“I love that tub. I wanna be buried in that tub.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Take your time. There’s plenty of hot water and dinner won’t be ready for at least an hour,” Bucky called over his shoulder as he made his way downstairs.

Steve did take his time, although not a bath from the sounds of it, his hair washed and cheeks freshly shaven when he rejoined Bucky in the kitchen thirty minutes later. Bucky refused his offer of help, and went back to finishing the salad he was making, while Steve sat on one of his stools and watched.

Dinner that night was a quiet affair, neither of them saying much once Steve praised the food, smacking his lips. There was still that stiltedness between them, Steve behaving as a guest and Bucky acting as a host as a result. They were both strangers to each other and not, unable to regain their rhythm from the porch, and it was evident in every single one of their interactions. Bucky found himself again wondering if this was a mistake, if things were too different now, if _they_ were too different now, but if nothing else at least they could say they tried before they went their separate ways.

Things changed the next day.

Steve was still sleeping on the sofa bed when Bucky crept down into the kitchen the following morning just after sunrise. He fed the cats and Fart Breath, and was finishing his coffee when he heard Steve starting to stir. After a quick trip to the downstairs toilet, he shuffled into the kitchen, scratching at his head and leaving a broom’s worth of cowlicks sticking straight up.

“Morning,” Bucky said from behind his coffee cup to hide his grin. Both pre-serum and post, Steve’s hair always looked like a baby chick’s whenever he first woke up. It was a bit longer now than during the war, but for someone whose bangs were usually so floppy it definitely needed a good combing before it behaved.

“Morning,” Steve yawned, scratching at his face now. “Coffee?”

“On the counter,” Bucky tilted his head. “Sleep all right?”

“Pretty good, yeah.” Steve prepared himself a mug, taking a noisy slurp before turning to face Bucky for the first time, blinking as he noticed Bucky’s outfit of track pants, long-sleeved tee, sneakers and bandana. “Going somewhere?”

“Just for a run.” After the past few days, Bucky was desperate for the exertion and burn off of excess energy a run would provide. “Shouldn’t be gone too long. Make yourself at home.”

“Would you mind some company?” Steve asked, something simultaneously hesitant but hopeful in his voice.

“If you think you can keep up,” Bucky couldn’t help himself.

“Jerk,” Steve snorted, then, “Give me five?”

“Sure thing,” Bucky agreed, before adding, “Punk.”

They had never run like this. When they were boys, Bucky used to love running through the streets of Brooklyn, but Steve, being so sickly, had never been able to keep up. Bucky remembered slowing his pace, because wherever Steve was, was where he wanted to be, and he never wanted to leave Steve behind. They had run plenty during the war, but that was out of necessity, oftentimes for their very lives. It had never been like this, as equals, worry-free and simply for the pure fun of it.

Steve was fast, probably one of the fastest humans on the planet, thanks to the serum. But so was Bucky, for the very same reason. There were very few things Bucky appreciated in regard to what had been done to his body against his will, but the ability to run and never tire, while the ground blurred beneath his feet and the air whipped his cheeks was one of them. He felt free when he ran, almost as if he could fly, and he loved the privacy his property afforded him so he did not have to hold back.

Apparently Steve felt the same way.

They jostled for a bit, challenging each other, but once they both realized they were evenly matched, they fell into a rhythm easy to maintain, running with each other and not against. Neither said a thing, but it wasn’t uncomfortable or heavy like their previous silences, the crunch of the ground beneath their feet a song they could both sing.

It was probably the longest run Bucky had taken since he’d moved to Salem. But he was exhilarated instead of exhausted by the time they made it back to the barn, sweat on his cheeks and in his hair, the steady beat of his heart reminding him he was alive.

“Oh man, that was great,” Steve agreed with Bucky’s unspoken sentiment, hands on his hips, his own cheeks flushed and sweaty. He was a bit out of breath, but not by much. “Do you do that every day?”

“Every other,” Bucky pulled the bandana off his head to wipe at the back of his neck.

“It’s nice. Different than DC.” Steve used the hem of his tee-shirt to dry his face.

“There are reasons why I decided to move here,” Bucky said.

“I can see that,” Steve nodded, taking another look around before he turned back to Bucky and straightened his shoulders, his eyes narrowing.

_Uh-oh_ , Bucky couldn’t help but think. That was Steve’s _Man With a Plan_ expression, and it seldom ever harkened good things, especially not for Bucky, who was usually the one left dealing with the aftermath.

“Now show me how to handle these demon chickens of yours so there’s not a repeat of yesterday. Once we get the eggs, I’ll make us some breakfast while you shower.”

After that, things were different. Steve stopped acting like a guest, and as a result Bucky stopped treating him like one. He began asking Bucky questions about his life, why did he pick Salem to settle down in, the people he knew, and how he spent his days. It didn’t feel like an interrogation, just Steve’s inherent curiosity reasserting itself, so Bucky answered him, with more honesty than he had with anyone since Becca. Steve listened intently, one question leading to two leading to three then more, until they would look up and realize hours had passed, or one of their stomachs growled and it was time to eat. Sometimes Steve would smile when Bucky spoke, and other times he would scowl, like when Bucky told him the story of how he found Fart Breath, the condition he was in and why Bucky hadn’t been able to leave him behind at the side of the road.

“Of course you couldn’t,” Steve said, reaching out to scratch Fart Breath’s flank, causing his tail to start thumping. They were sitting on opposite ends of Bucky’s couch, FB between them, Catcula in Bucky’s lap, Purrzilla in Steve’s; she seemed to have taken to him. “But he’s alright now?”

“Yeah, perfectly healthy according to his last check up, although no one can figure out what’s going on with his breath.”

“Worth it though. Still friendly even after everything he’s been through.” Steve gave FB’s side another scratch.

“Definitely,” Bucky agreed, just as the stinky motherfucker panted his agreement, causing both of them to curse in disgust.

Steve also started teasing Bucky, nothing harsh or cruel but the ribbing that had been so central to their dynamic in the past.

“Jesus Christ, it takes you even longer now to do your hair than it did in the thirties,” Steve complained when Bucky walked into the kitchen. It was the fourth morning, just after their run, and Steve was making them breakfast, a task he decided to take upon himself while there.

“What?” Bucky asked, reaching into the refrigerator in search of orange juice. “You think it’s easy to have hair this shiny? It takes a lot of work.”

“Nat doesn’t take as long as you do. You have a blow-dryer, and at least sixteen products.”

“I like the way they smell,” Bucky shot back. He didn’t care what anyone, especially Steve, had to say; his hair looked _fabulous_.

“Uh-huh,” Steve grunted, stirring the potatoes he was frying. He was pretending to focus on his task, but Bucky could feel him staring at him out of the corner of his eye, knew there was a question coming.

“Why so long though?” Steve’s voice was softer this time, inquisitive instead of judgmental.

“Because I like it,” Bucky shrugged. He pulled some plates from the cabinets, considering how honest he should be, if this was a topic worth breeching. “When I was with HYDRA, unless it was for a mission, my appearance was irrelevant. They would hose me down if I started to smell, and hack my hair off if it got too long. I never got a say in any of it. And now that I do, I like keeping it long and taking care of it. It’s my choice, and brushing or braiding it reminds me of that, that I can do my hair however I want and nobody gets to have a say. Even all the stuff I put in it helps. It smells nice, not like disinfectant, and it’s another reminder I’m free. And I still need that sometimes. Even now.”

Steve was silent when he finished, but it was a silence vibrating with a million things unsaid; anger, rage, fury, a swell of it Bucky could almost taste in the air. And for an instant, just the teeniest, tiniest of instants, the old fear flared up, panic at the thought of disappointment, failure, punishment. Another instinct written in his veins he would always struggle against.

But this was Steve, and Steve had never hurt him. And just because someone was angry did not mean that anger was directed at him, could be _for him_ instead, a fact Steve confirmed with his next words.

“I should have looked for you.”

“What?” Bucky asked, so surprised he almost dropped the cutlery he was gathering.

“After…after the train, I should have come for you, looked for your body.” Steve was gripping the spatula so tight Bucky could hear it cracking. “I shouldn’t have just left you there.”

“You wouldn’t have found me. Or HYDRA would have gotten you instead,” Bucky glared at him.

“And that would have been fine!” Steve shouted, the spatula finally snapping in half from the force of his grip.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Bucky reached past him to turn off the burner, pull the skillet off the stove, then took Steve’s hand into his own to check for any injury. Thankfully he wasn’t bleeding.

“I should have come for you. I shouldn’t have left you behind like that. You didn’t deserve what happened to you, nobody does, but especially not you. But I didn’t and it’s my fault you went through that.” When Bucky looked up, there were tears in Steve’s eyes.

And it was Bucky’s turn to learn the taste of fury.

“Now you listen to me, and you listen to me good, Steven Grant Rogers,” he snarled, stepping into Steve’s space, deliberately drawing closer than ever before. “What happened to me wasn’t your fault. We were in the middle of a war and soldiers were dying left and right. It was one of the risks. I knew that, we all did. You had no reason to think I would have survived that fall. I sure as hell didn’t. I _should have_ died, so there’s no way you could’ve known. What happened to me _fucking sucked,_ I won’t deny that, and there are plenty of people I blame for it. But never once, _never once_ did I ever blame you, do you hear me? So don’t you dare go blaming yourself either!”

“But –“

“Don’t. You. Dare. It was _not_ your fault.” Steve’s face was twisted, tears streaming down his cheeks, a flood of anger, sorrow and regret leaving crystalline tracks on his face. Steve, who was so controlled. Steve, who never cried. Steve, who was now openly weeping over something that was not his fault.

“Oh Jesus, come here.” Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve, pulling him into an embrace, holding on tight. Steve went willingly, too upset to resist, pressing his face into Bucky’s shoulder, his hands clenching the back of Bucky’s shirt.

“I’m so sorry Bucky. I’m so, so sorry,” he sobbed against Bucky’s skin.

“It wasn’t your fault Stevie.” This time when he said the words, Bucky cooed instead of snarled, hoping to soothe instead of compound Steve’s pain. “You couldn’t have known. None of us could. And I don’t blame you for it, for any of it. I never did.”

“But –“

“No,” Bucky shook his head. “No. Just no. Let it go, all right? Just let it go. If you want me to forgive you, I do, but there’s nothing to forgive. There never was. So stop beating yourself up over something you had no control over, OK?”

“I’m still so sorry,” Steve sniffed, his own arms tightening around Bucky.

“Me too.” If Bucky had been a braver man, he would have pressed a kiss to the top of Steve’s head. But he wasn’t, and all he could do was hold on while Steve cried. Not something they normally did, even in their youth, but not something either one would have ever hesitated doing for the other either, if the need had been there. So Bucky held onto Steve while Steve held onto to him, until eventually Steve quieted, the shivers in his body growing still.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky muttered when he felt the moment was right. “If this is how you react to me having long hair, maybe I should cut it.” It got the reaction he was hoping for, a muffled snort from Steve.

“No, don’t.” Steve tugged on the end of the braid Bucky wove into his hair that morning before pulling out of Bucky’s embrace with a final sniff. His cheeks were still blotchy, but he looked better than he had five minutes ago as he ran his eyes over Bucky’s face. “It’s pretty,” he added, which was not a reaction Bucky expected.

“What?” Bucky asked.

“Like you don’t know it. You were always as vain as a popinjay about your hair,” Steve scowled at him.

“Stop being jealous Rogers, it doesn’t suit you,” Bucky decided to take the offered distraction.

“Oh please,” Steve rolled his eyes, then sighed, glancing back at the stove. “I fucked up breakfast.”

“Eh, we can feed it to the chickens,” Bucky shrugged.

“We’re outta eggs though.”

“That’s what bacon is for.”

“You’ve got bacon?” Steve glared at him.

“Not just any bacon. Maple bacon.”

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“You didn’t deserve it until now.”

“It’s good to know you’re still an asshole.”

“Takes one to know one,” Bucky shot back.

“Takes one to know one?” Steve arched an eyebrow at him. “That’s what you’re going with? Really?”

“Talk like that isn’t going to get you any bacon.”

“Uh-huh,” Steve crossed his arms, but there was a smile in his eyes.

“You feel better?” Bucky asked while he had the chance.

“Yeah, I do.” It always amazed Bucky how expressive Steve’s face was, at least with him, even now, as it shifted from frustration to sheepishness so quickly.

“Good,” Bucky nodded. “Now see if you can save those potatoes. I’ll be right back. I gotta wash your snot off my neck.”

Steve’s laughter followed Bucky all the way to the bathroom.

***

It didn’t just go one way. Steve asked Bucky plenty of questions about his life, but Bucky had always been just as curious as Steve, so he asked plenty of his own, wanting to get to know Steve just as much as Steve did with him.

“What movie do you want to watch?” Bucky asked that same day after dinner as they settled on the couch, Bucky’s pets quick to join them.

“I don’t care. You pick,” Steve smiled at Purrzilla, who was kneading his thighs. “Hey pretty girl.”

“Any new favorites?” Bucky pressed.

“Not really,” Steve shrugged.

“Anything you’re dying to see?”

“Not really,” Steve repeated, deliberately avoiding Bucky’s gaze. “I mean, I have a list.”

“A list?” Bucky urged when Steve didn’t go on.

“It’s three pages now.”

“Three pages?”

“People are always insisting I have to see this movie or read this book, or when I tell them I have no idea what Game of Thrones is, they look at me like I’m crazy. They’re always offering me suggestions or teasing me when I don’t understand something. I mean, how the hell was I supposed to know it’s OK for women to show their breasts in movies now? I’m not a prude, I know what breasts are, but a little warning would have been nice.”

“Yeah, I was pretty shocked the first time I saw that too,” Bucky admitted.

“Thank you,” Steve sighed. “I mean, I get that times have changed, and I’m not complaining. Things are a lot better now, they really are. I just wish people would stop treating me like I’m an idiot because I don’t always get what they’re talking about.”

“I still get caught off guard sometimes,” Bucky sympathized. “And I’ve had fifteen years to get used to things, instead of just five. But I also had Becca-Bee to help me. Didn’t they do anything to try to help you get acclimated?”

“I had a two-week crash course when they first found me. They stuck me in a cabin, gave me a cellphone, explained the internet and handed me a three-inch-thick binder filled with the things they thought I needed to know. Then aliens attacked and after that it was the shitshow in DC, so everything since then has been pretty much on the fly. Sam and Nat helped a lot, especially at first, and I can definitely manage now. And it’s not like I want to go back to the quote-unquote good old days either, cos you know as well as I do how shitty those were.”

“Definitely,” Bucky agreed.

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss certain things either sometimes,” Steve shrugged. “Nothing was familiar at first, even in our old neighborhood, and I didn’t have any touchstones, not like everyone else does. So I just wish people would cut me some slack and stop making fun of me when I want to watch an old Cary Grant flick instead of the latest Batman movie.”

“So let’s watch one then,” Bucky offered.

“Really?” Steve asked.

“Yeah, why not?” Bucky shrugged. “A lot of the newer stuff is pretty great, but I’m still a fan of the classics myself, and you can’t beat Cary Grant. I’ll make us some popcorn while you decide and we’ll have a classic movie night.”

“Netflix and chill?” Steve said, his expression innocent. Bucky blinked at him.

“Well, it’s good to know you know what trolling is,” he scowled when he could finally speak, causing Steve to cackle. “But then again, you practically invented it.”

“You walked right into that one,” Steve laughed.

“You know what? I did,” Bucky had to admit, moving Catcula from his lap so he could stand. “But just because of that, I’m not sharing any of my popcorn with you.”

“And that’s the tea.”

“Oh my god! Will you shut up!”

***

But three movies later, Bucky felt a nudge at his thigh and when he looked at Steve, he was smiling at him, soft and warm and grateful. When Bucky cocked his head, Steve merely shook his own, muttering a quiet “Thanks,” before returning his attention to _Swing Time_.

“Anytime Stevie, anytime.”

***

The following afternoon, Steve was helping Bucky tend his garden when Bucky’s phone started vibrating in his back pocket. Pulling off his gloves, he reached for it, smiling when he saw an incoming text from Izzie. He’d called Regency Woodland on Sunday, informing them that due to an unexpected visit from an old friend he wouldn’t be coming in that week, and after repeatedly assuring Agnes that _No, he was not quitting,_ and _Yes, he would be back on the following Monday, he promised,_ he’d received several texts from his Fab Five, including Frankie, just to check up on him, or complaining about the food, Frankie again. CeCe even texted him several times, when he didn’t show up as usual for lunch on Monday, also wanting to make sure he was okay. It warmed him to know there were people who cared enough to worry about him, would miss him if he was gone, including Yelena, who was still texting him even though he informed her he was safe, his situation secure. Their texts always made him smile, and in appreciation he tried to respond as quickly as possible.

“I’m not keeping you from anybody important, am I?” Steve asked when Bucky slid his phone back into his pocket. “I mean, I did just kinda barge into your life unannounced.”

“Oh now he admits it,” Bucky grumbled, picking up the spade he was using.

“I know I did,” Steve grouched. “But I never meant to keep you from your friends or your girlfriend.”

“You’re not,” Bucky shook his head.

“If you’re sure?” Steve pressed.

“Don’t worry about it, Steve, it’s fine.” Bucky checked the soil. It seemed damp enough to not need watering.

“’K,” Steve said, focusing back on the flowers he was tending. They were quiet for a while, both absorbed in their work, until Steve broke it with another question.

“Do you have one then?”

“One what?” Bucky asked.

“A girlfriend.”

“No,” Bucky said slowly.

“Really? Why not? I can’t imagine there aren’t at least a hundred women dying to go out with you, long hair aside,” Steve quipped.

“No, there’s no girlfriend.” And this was the moment, wasn’t it? Steve said he was here because he wanted to get to know who Bucky was now. And who he was now was a very different person in some ways, and in others not so much. One of the biggest differences was not who he was attracted to, but the fact he no longer needed to hide it. Steve had never known, but Becca did, and it hadn’t altered how she felt about him. If it changed Steve’s opinion, maybe he wasn’t someone Bucky needed or wanted in his life. It was time to take this one last plunge and see if there was anything worth saving in the end. He gathered his courage, took a deep breath, and said,

“And no boyfriend either.”

“What?” Steve asked, the stem of the hyacinth he’d been tending snapping in his hand.

“I said, there’s no girlfriend. And no boyfriend either.”

_“What?”_

“Is that going to be a problem for you?” Bucky risked looking at Steve for the first time since he brought the topic up. Steve’s mouth was open, his eyes wide, as if he’d just been slapped.

Bucky supposed it was too much to hope for. It had been so easy, too easy, slipping back into their older rhythms as if practically no time had passed. It was comforting, familiar, friendly and Bucky’s heart started to yearn and ache for Steve the way it always had. Out of sight was out of mind, but he loved Steve once, loved him still, and this was the real reason he never reached out to Steve when he, along with the rest of the world, discovered he was alive. Becca called it a miracle, but his sister also used to say miracles came with pain and she was right. It wouldn’t kill him, but it could hurt him, and his heart didn’t need any more scars.

He didn’t think Steve would hate him for being queer; he’d always been unbelievably open minded and non-judgmental, with a strong belief in equality for all, even when they were growing up. But there was a big difference between believing in equality and not being affected by the knowledge your childhood best friend liked sleeping with men as much as women. Steve had been raised Catholic after all, and the church, along with almost everyone else, used to call men like Bucky perverts, sinners and deviants. Some still did, but they were assholes, and they could no longer punish or throw him in jail because of it. He just hoped he wasn’t going to have to include Steve in that category.

“No,” Steve finally said, but his expression remained the same.

“Are you sure about that?” Bucky cut his gaze to the crushed flower Steve was still holding.

“Of course I am.” Steve noticed the flower and dropped it like a hot stone. “Shit!”

“OK,” Bucky shrugged, not believing him but choosing to let it lie, focusing on his patch of dirt. Steve did the same, but Bucky could feel the weight of his stare.

“Guys too? Really?” Steve asked a few seconds later.

“It’s called bisexuality. Was that not in the binder they gave you?”

“I know what bisexuality is,” Steve snapped, then caught himself, realizing his tone. “Were you always like this, or was this something that came later?”

“Always,” Bucky said.

“Even when we were kids?” Steve wanted to know.

“Even when we were kids,” Bucky nodded.

“But…you never said anything,” Steve pressed, because of course he would. Bucky sighed and tossed his spade to the ground, shifting so he faced Steve directly.

“Look, do you want to know if I’ve had sex with men? Is that what you’re asking? The answer is yes. I’ve had sex with men. I’ve had lots of sex with men now. But I also had sex with men back when we were living in Brooklyn, and when we were in the army as well. And each time I really enjoyed it. I like making time with men and I like making time with women. As long as they’re funny and interesting, it doesn’t matter to me if they have a pussy or a dick. If that’s going to be a problem for you, then you can call Sam to come pick you up right now.”

“It’s not!” Steve insisted, pulling his own work gloves off. “It’s just…Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Because if you were, you kept it a secret, Steve.” Bucky couldn’t believe Steve was being this dense. They’d lived in Red Hook together, and he had to remember the raids or beatings that happened if someone was unlucky enough to be seen at the wrong place at the wrong time. “If anyone found out, I’d’ve been thrown in jail if I was lucky, never mind the shame it would have brought my family. And what do you think would have happened to you if anyone found out you were living with an invert? Small and slight as you were, they would’ve thought you were my kept little fairy, and come after you next. You didn’t need that shit on top of everything else. And it was fine, I could date women, I like women just as much. But I don’t have to limit myself anymore, so I don’t.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Steve cut in.

“Well thank you for your approval,” Bucky rolled his eyes.

“I just wish you would’ve told me, that’s all,” Steve persisted.

Bucky threw his hands up in the air. “Well I’m telling you now, all right? Stop looking at me with your mouth hanging open like a fish.” Steve snapped his shut. “Is this going to be a problem?”

“No.” Steve sounded like he did when one of the nuns at Saint Catherine’s used to scold him, all scowls and petulant anger.

“Fine then.” Bucky picked up his spade and started jabbing its point into the soil. Steve took the hint, _finally,_ and went back to tending the hyacinth bush.

“And there’s really nobody now? No girlfriend or _boyfriend?_ ” Or maybe not. But then again, when Steve set his mind to something, he was worse than a dog with a bone.

“I already said that, didn’t I?” Bucky reminded himself to keep his voice calm.

“I just wish you would have said something sooner, that’s all. All these years, and I never knew that about you.”

“Ugh!” Bucky got to his feet, giving up that day’s gardening as a lost cause. “Do you want a beer? Because I could really go for a beer right now.”

“I can’t get drunk,” Steve said in the same petulant tone as before.

“Neither can I, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want one.” He desperately needed a breather, some space from Steve so he could collect his thoughts. “I’ll be back in a minute.” _Or another seventy-five years._

“OK.”

“OK!” Bucky turned on his heel and stomped to the door, barely managing to not slam it behind him. Once in his kitchen, he opened the fridge and grabbed a beer. He didn’t drink from it though, pressing it to his forehead instead, relishing the coolness of the chilled glass against his skin. It wasn’t quite the distraction he was hoping for, but at least he no longer had to look at Steve’s dumbstruck face. But he’d done it, he’d come out to Steve; it was up to Steve to decide how he handled that information.

Steve apparently decided to handle it by storming into the kitchen after him.

“You really are a fucking idiot, do you know that James Buchanan Barnes?” Steve wasn’t shouting, but he looked furious.

“Me? Why am I the idiot?” Bucky asked, slamming the bottle on the countertop.

Instead of answering, Steve grabbed him by his shirt with both hands and yanked him forward, mashing his lips against Bucky’s own.

As first kisses went, it was not the soft culmination of years, decades, centuries worth of yearning. It was not the hiss of a cryotank sealing shut, or the blessing of sunlight on his cheeks. It was clumsy, with too much teeth, and lips that didn’t know how to fit together.

But…

It was the kiss Bucky had been waiting for all his life, from the man who was once a boy who had been the entirety of Bucky’s world ever since he first saw him, and came to know want, and need and _I would do anything to make you happy if you would just let me, because you are my heart_.

It was _please_ , and _yes_ , and a miracle without any pain, wordless whispers even more sacred, because it wasn’t just Bucky saying them but Steve as well, breath to breath, skin to skin, and blood to blood.

“That’s why,” Steve said softy when it ended, when they broke apart, both of them panting as if they were newly born.

“But…but…” Bucky’s tongue felt heavy in his mouth, his lips swollen with both passion and fear. Because if this was a dream, or something he was only going to get a single taste of, it would almost be as devastating as his fall from the train, or Rebecca’s death. And he didn’t think he was strong enough to survive a third loss. “But you’re not like me.”

“No, I’m not.” Steve’s forehead was pressed to his own, and Bucky could feel him shaking his head. “I’m gay, not bisexual.”

“B-but Carter,” Bucky stammered, remembering how she used to look at Steve, and the way Steve always smiled at her.

“No, not like that, never like that,” Steve insisted, pulling back, but only enough to look Bucky in the eyes, his hands still clenched in Bucky’s shirt. “It was only you, only ever you, ever since we were kids. Why do you think I spent the last six months looking for you?”

“But you never said anything,” Bucky echoed Steve’s words from before.

“Neither did you,” Steve said, his eyes locked on Bucky’s. “And I know you probably don’t feel the same, but if there’s even the smallest chance, I had to take it. I already waited too long once, and I’m not going to make the same mistake twice. So if there’s even the slightest possibility…”

“Now who’s being an idiot?” Bucky asked, sliding his hands into Steve’s hair, the gold of it, the liquid sunshine he’d always wanted to stroke, pulling Steve in for their second kiss, softer and sweeter, but deeper than any kiss that had come before, hoping, knowing, Steve would be strong enough to bear it.

Bliss and warmth and the fluttering of wings. The roar of a lion, the purr of a kitten, a homecoming seventy years too late, but not a moment too soon, all that he was, that he hoped for, there for Steve to taste.

“Always you Stevie, it’s always been you,” Bucky whispered when this second kiss ended, his hands still in Steve’s hair.

“Really?” Steve’s voice had always been deep, even before the serum. But now it sounded small, fragile, hopeful.

“Really,” Bucky swore, causing Steve to smile.

“Then we’ve both been idiots,” Steve murmured against his lips.

“Yeah, but now we’re idiots who can kiss each other.”

Which was exactly what they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😊


	35. 2016 - Jared Brian Benton (a.k.a. Bucky) (Cont'd...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **points to rating** So this chapter is where we finally earn the E rating for Pearl. I know it's not everybody's thing, and in case it isn't, I wanted to give anyone reading this a head's up. If you do read it, I hope you enjoy it, and as always, especially this week, thank you so much for all of your kindness and support.
> 
> 💙💙💙

Kisses, even long-awaited ones, especially long-awaited ones, could not last forever. But they could lead to other things; breathless moments of joy and welcome as hands reached, explored, discovered.

Bucky had no concept of how much time passed, but when they broke apart for the second time, he realized, in a move worthy of his Winter Soldier days for as sneaky as it was, Steve had lifted him up onto the kitchen counter, slipping himself between Bucky’s spread thighs, his palms pressed into the small of Bucky’s back. They were warm, their skin surprisingly soft, as Steve ran them in soothing circles in the space between the waistband of Bucky’s jeans and the hem of his tee-shirt. Their foreheads were once again pressed together, so close Bucky could feel every puff of breath Steve took against his lips, that were now damp from the evidence of Steve’s desire. He wondered, could not help but wonder, what Steve would be like in bed, if they would even get that far, when Steve, licking his own lips, spoke.

“So now what?” There was a tremble in his voice, in direct contrast to the steadiness of his body. And while Steve held him penned between the counter and his hips, his shoulders broad enough to block out even the sun, Bucky didn’t feel trapped. Felt sheltered, protected, instead of trapped, the way he usually did when someone he didn’t know, someone uninvited, came too close. But this was Steve, and while Steve always made him feel a million emotions, a billion of them, threatened was never one of them.

“Whatever you want,” Bucky murmured. His arms were draped over Steve’s shoulders, his fingers brushing over the fine hairs at the nape of his neck, kitten soft and just as delicate.

“I want everything.” Steve leaned forward, not for another kiss, but to press the crest of his cheekbone against Bucky’s own. “Always have with you.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that,” Bucky laughed, feeling the exact same way. “But if you’re asking for my opinion, we could take this upstairs.” He kissed the corner of Steve’s mouth, just a peck, not wanting Steve to feel trapped or threatened either.

“That…that would be good,” Steve panted, his fingers clenching even deeper into Bucky’s back.

“We should -“ That was all Bucky had the chance to say before Steve slid his hands around Bucky’s ass, lifting him off the counter, carrying him toward the stairs as if he weighed nothing. “All righty then.” Bucky tightened his thighs around the narrow vee of Steve’s hips, unused to being so easily manhandled due to his size, but trusting Steve enough to let him.

“Sorry, sorry.” They were already in the loft by the time Steve spoke, where he gently lowered Bucky to his feet, but didn’t let go. “It’s too fast, isn’t it?”

It was. But then again it wasn’t. What was too fast when you had been waiting your entire life for this exact moment? Wanted it more than you wanted, needed, your next breath. They were not strangers to each other, but there were still parts of them, vast parts, unknown, landscapes yet to be discovered, caves and cliffs yet to be revealed. And there were things Bucky needed to explain.

It was that need that cooled his blood enough to step back, but not far, keeping his hands on Steve’s arms while he peered into his eyes.

“There are things you need to know about me, about my body now, before we go any further.” Somehow Bucky managed to keep his voice neutral. He didn’t want to make Steve feel pressured, but he deserved all the facts before he made his choice. Bucky was all about choices now, and he would never dare take the right to make them from anyone, but especially not Steve. “And you may change your mind when you hear them, and that’s all right. There’s no wrong answer here, but you still need to know.”

“OK.” Thankfully Steve didn’t brush off Bucky words, or deny there was anything that could make a difference. He was a strategist at heart after all, and even pre-serum he hated being coddled, especially if the person coddling him thought it was for his own good. Bucky never had, knowing it would only make Steve resentful, and in exchange Bucky was the only one Steve ever let take care of him when he needed someone to. It was a hallmark of their friendship, brutal honesty in exchange for brutal honestly, and probably why it survived everything that led to this moment.

“I don’t know exactly what was in that file Natalia gave you, and we haven’t really talked about what was done to me, but my body’s different now,” Bucky began to explain.

“I know that.” Steve ran his eyes over Bucky from head to toe, slowly, steadily, making his own map. And on the surface, Bucky’s body was very different from when they marched together during the war. He’d always been lean, but he was skinny then, not thinking it strange when their circumstances mandated that rations were short and there were plenty of nights when they all went to sleep with growling stomachs. While he was still leaner than Steve, his thighs, arms and shoulders were corded with rippling muscle that required very little maintenance as long as he consumed enough calories.

But that was just on the surface, and even then, it was only one facet of what made Bucky’s body so different from everyone else’s.

“I don’t know if you know this, but I was injected with something, several times, and it changed what my body’s capable of. I don’t know if it was the same thing you got,” Bucky shook his head, “and if it wasn’t, it’s a very close proximation. We’ve already run together a couple of times, and you’ve had to notice I had no problems keeping up with you.”

“I did,” Steve admitted. Bucky nodded, removing his hands from Steve’s biceps as he took another step back.

“There’s also this,” he raised his left arm and wriggled his fingers. “You’ve seen the hand, but not the rest of it. The metal goes all the way up, to my shoulder, and there’s a lot of scarring where it’s attached. I’ve gotten used to it by now and have complete control over it, so I won’t hurt you. But it was designed to be a weapon, my whole body was really, and it looks it. It can be pretty shocking the first time someone sees it, and I won’t be offended if it puts you off, but I wanted you to know that before we do anything else, so you can make up your own mind.”

Steve said nothing when Bucky finished, studying him closely. But not his arm, or the hand still raised between them. Instead his eyes were locked on Bucky’s face, from where they hadn’t strayed, not once, during Bucky’s entire speech.

Until he finally reached out between them and took Bucky’s left hand into both of his own.

“You’ve killed with this hand,” he said into the heavy silence between them.

“More than once,” Bucky confessed, wondering if this would be the tipping point that shifted the scales and changed Steve’s mind about him, bringing him in, ending the moment before it ever had a chance to truly begin.

“Did you want to?” Steve asked.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Bucky whispered, shaking his head.

“And I know that too.” Steve slowly flipped Bucky’s hand over, spreading the fingers wide. “But I also know you used this hand to take care of your sister when she was dying of cancer. And your sister gave me a box with a bumblebee on the cover made by this hand.” Steve began to run his fingertips over the grooves in the plates of his knuckles; they were smooth and seamless, the edges practically invisible to the naked eye.

“And since I’ve been here, I’ve seen you use this hand to cook breakfast, tend a garden, stroke your cats, and play with a dog you rescued from the side of the road, when no one else did.” He slid his thumbs over the palms, where the indents were deeper and the sensors more sensitive.

“When they gave you this arm, it was because they wanted a weapon,” Steve continued, glancing down at the hand still held in his own for the first time, before bringing his gaze back to Bucky’s face. “But you took it and turned it into something gentle. Something that makes art and flowers bloom. Because that’s who you are and who you’ve always been. Someone gentle and kind. It’s the strongest thing about you and why I’ve always loved you and still do.

“So no, I don’t care about your arm or your scars or anything else that’s been done to your body. You survived it and you’re still here, and that’s the _only thing_ that matters to me.” Steve brought Bucky’s hand to his lips, and pressed a kiss to his palm, then turned it over and pressed another one to its back, a soft, fluttering thing also gentle and kind, yet still made Bucky want to weep.

“You’re an idiot,” Bucky managed around the lump in his throat.

“Can I be your idiot?” Steve grinned at him over the metal of Bucky’s knuckles.

“You always were,” Bucky said, causing Steve to chuckle. Then it was Steve’s turn to step back, lowering Bucky’s hand, his expression as serious as Bucky’s must have been a few moments ago.

“We don’t have to anything you don’t want to, or if it makes you uncomfortable. And I won’t touch your arm if it bothers you, but you don’t have to hide it from me, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’d just really like to get to know you, all of you, in any way you’d let me.”

“And just what, exactly, did you have in mind?” Bucky asked, the simmer that had dampened roaring back into a full flame now this first, most difficult part was out of the way. Instead of answering him, Steve blinked, not a flush but a blush staining his cheeks, and lowered his eyes. It gave Bucky pause, because Steve was many things, but coy was not one of them.

“Steve,” Bucky took a step forward, but didn’t crowd Steve, giving him enough space to pull back if he needed to. “You said you were gay –“

“I am,” Steve nodded.

“OK, but have you ever actually had sex with a man before?” Bucky asked.

“You’re not the only one who spent time by the docks or visiting the Rockland,” he grumbled under his breath. “I know how to give a blowjob.”

“That’s great,” Bucky forced himself not to laugh, lest Steve think he was mocking him. “But anything else?” Steve mumbled something Bucky couldn’t make out, even with his enhanced hearing. “What was that?”

“No.” And there was the petulant Steve Bucky remembered from their childhood.

“And that’s fine,” Bucky was quick to reassure. “That just means we have more to talk about first.” Bucky sat down on his bed, patting the spot next to him.

“This is so not sexy,” Steve complained, flopping face first onto the mattress, burying his face in the duvet.

“Actually, it’s very sexy,” Bucky stated. “Hurting somebody because you didn’t ask the right questions first is what’s not sexy.”

“Suppose,” Steve grunted.

“If you can’t talk about sex, then you shouldn’t be having it.” Bucky wondered if this was how Becca felt when dealing with one of her students. Still, it was an important conversation to have.

“No, I know, it’s just…” Steve trailed off.

“It’s just what?”

“I’ve been waiting so long for this, feels like forever, and this is not how I expected it to go.”

“You and me both, pal,” Bucky did laugh this time. “But we can wait five more minutes, or another day even, until you’re comfortable with it.”

“I’m not uncomfortable with it.”

“That’s good. Now c’mon,” Bucky gently tapped the back of Steve’s hip. “Stop hiding and look at me.”

“Fine,” Steve sighed, rolling onto his back, looking very put out for someone about to get laid.

“First question. What do you want to do?” Bucky asked. “And it’s all right if you don’t know the answer yet.”

“I don’t know,” Steve shrugged. “Everything.”

“All right. Second question,” Bucky continued. “Is there anything you _don’t_ like?”

“Ugh,” Steve dragged his hands over his face. “I don’t know.”

“And that’s OK,” Bucky reminded him. But he could see Steve was getting frustrated, embarrassed by what he didn’t know, so Bucky decided to remind him what they were here for, the promise in both their bodies. He shifted, swinging his leg over Steve hips, settling with the warmth of his pelvis as a steady weight against Steve’s own. Steve’s eyes immediately widened, his pupils dilating.

“We can figure it out together,” Bucky smiled at him. “And we don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. I can give you a handjob or suck you off if you want. We don’t even have to do that right now. We can just rub each other off like this and kiss some more, all slow like, if you’d rather.”

“It’s not that I don’t know what’s involved.” Steve’s hands were on his thighs, his fingertips digging into the muscles there. The incessant pressure sent tingles up Bucky’s spine. “I’ve just never had the chance to go this far before. So it’s not that I can’t talk about it, I just don’t know.”

“And that’s fine,” Bucky reminded him. “Like I just said, we can figure it out together.”

“What about you?” Steve asked, dragging his fingers up and down Bucky’s legs. He might not have much experience, but he was observant and noticed the way Bucky’s breathing hitched beneath his touch. “What do you like?”

“Good question,” Bucky deliberately let Steve know he was on the right track, before leaning back a bit and shrugging. “As for me, I like a bit of everything. Don’t try to hold me down, because I’ll probably freak out if you do, but a little manhandling is fine. Other than that, I’m pretty flexible. Top, bottom, no preference really. It just depends on the mood. I get off on getting whomever I’m with off, and I love to fuck and get fucked.”

“I’d really love to fuck you,” Steve wheezed, staring at Bucky as if they were in the Garden of Eden and Bucky the serpent offering the apple.

“We can do that,” and Bucky knew his smile was full of fang. “But that leads to the next question.”

“Oh god, more questions? Really?” Steve complained.

“Questions are sexy, Steve,” Bucky emphasized his point by grinding his hips downward. “Especially if you want to shove this big boy up my ass.” He could feel the rise of it, the more than generous press of Steve’s jean covered dick rubbing against him.

“OK, OK,” Steve panted, his fingers digging even deeper into Bucky’s thighs.

“Condoms.”

“What?” Steve blinked.

“Condoms,” Bucky repeated.

“Do we need them?” Steve’s brow was furrowed. The fact he even asked made Bucky want to hunt down and punch whoever gave Steve that binder of his. Hadn’t anybody talked about this to him?

“It’s good sexual etiquette to always use them,” Bucky said instead of growling the way he wanted to. “As for needing them, again that’s up to you. I’m clean. I’m not going to go into any details, but trust me when I tell you HYDRA had a lot of fun injecting me with all kinds of shit to see if I could catch or carry anything,” _hepatitis A, B, and C, syphilis, mononucleosis, tuberculosis, and who knew what else,_ “but the tests always came back clean. But that’s me. I don’t know about you, or what you’re comfortable with.”

“I’m clean,” Steve stated, but there was ripple, just the tiniest, in his voice, as if he heard all the words Bucky hadn’t said, and was furious about it. “And like you, I can’t catch anything. But whatever you want, that’s what we’ll do.”

“Well, I don’t mind the feeling of cum dripping outta my ass,” Bucky winked at him. “Kinda like it actually.”

“Please tell me there are no more questions. _Please,_ ” Steve actually whined.

“Nah, not unless you have any.” Bucky leaned forward to blow a small puff of air against the rim of Steve’s ear. “Although I gotta admit, I love the sound of you begging. Maybe I’ll get to hear more of it.”

“Oh thank god,” Steve growled, putting his glorious body and all its training to use, flipping them over so Bucky was thrown onto his back on top of the covers. He wondered, of course he had, what Steve would be like in bed. Would he be bossy and commanding, a force to be reckoned with. Or would he be careful and slow, his fingers dancing over Bucky’s skin the way they did over a page whenever Steve sketched something. All of that, none of it, or some combination beyond Bucky’s frantic, late night imaginings.

Whatever it ended up being, fumbling and innocent, or determined despite Steve’s inexperience, Bucky knew he was going to enjoy it.

It was a mad scramble at first, as they kicked off sneakers, socks and jeans, followed by Bucky’s briefs and Steve’s boxer shorts being tossed to the floor. Then it was time for the final reveal, the one Bucky warned Steve about, the one he most feared. Instead of the desperate tearing of just a few seconds ago, Steve paused, shifting backwards to give Bucky both the space and time he needed to take this last step.

Slowly, carefully, Bucky pulled his shirt up and over his head, keeping it clenched in his right hand as he leaned back on his pillows and awaited Steve’s judgement.

Steve stared. He didn’t gawk but he didn’t pretend to ignore it either, which was a relief. Instead he ran his eyes from Bucky’s shoulder to the very ends of his fingers, taking in every single detail; the gleaming silver, the multiple plates, the crimson star still branded on his shoulder, studying, observing, committing it to memory.

“Can I touch it?” he asked quietly when it was done, when he had seen all there was to see.

“You can,” Bucky nodded, giving his permission. Steve didn’t reach for the arm itself, but the scarring instead, where the metal was fused into Bucky’s flesh. It was the lightest caress, a featherlike brushing of the tip of his index finger over the raised ridge of blood red skin. A tickle, a kiss, the gentlest anyone had ever been with that part of Bucky’s body.

“Does it hurt?” was his next question, as he followed the scarring to where it was obvious someone, Bucky, had tried to claw the arm off.

“No,” Bucky shook his head. They were whispering, the moment too delicate for anything but whispers, as delicate as Steve’s touch and the hope fluttering in Bucky’s heart. “Sometimes the muscles get tight at the end of the day. But as long as I eat enough and make sure to stretch it out, it’s fine.”

“How much do you feel with it?” Steve finally touched the metal itself, exploring the sculpted ridges of muscle sheltering the inner core.

“Pressure and temperature awareness in the arm,” Bucky answered. “The hand’s a lot more sensitive, almost the same as my right, but different and it took me a long time to learn how to control it.”

“It’s actually kind of pretty,” Steve looked at him as if he were apologizing. “Not what I was expecting, and not something you ever deserved. But now I’m seeing it for the first time, I can’t help but think so. It’s a part of you, and no part of you has ever been ugly to me, so,” he shrugged, “and you’re certainly not any less because of it.”

“You’re weird,” Bucky said, loosening his clasp on his shirt now that it was over and they were still okay.

“I’ve been told that before,” Steve grinned at him. “But you’re still gorgeous.” Steve proved his words by shifting his gaze from Bucky’s arm to the rest of his body. This Bucky definitely recognized as Steve’s artistic gaze. He’d modelled for Steve plenty of times in the past, but never like this, with all his skin on display. Steve took it in greedily, from his clavicle to his pecs to the ridges of his lats and the crest of his hips. He smiled when he got to Bucky’s cock, with a quick lick of his lips, before his gaze traveled lower, to Bucky’s thighs, his still knobby knees, down his calves until it rested on the delicate prominence of the bones of Bucky’s ankles.

“Gorgeous,” he said again, reverent and worshipful, his smile wide and bright. “But then again, I always knew you would be.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Bucky said just as honestly, reaching for him. And he wasn’t. Bucky had loved Steve, thought him stunning, beautiful, when he was small and frail, with birdlike bones and milky pale skin. Now Steve’s body was a testament of strength and power, a monument of sculpted muscle, but he was still stunning, still beautiful, if in a different way. His shoulders were massive, his broad chest tapering into a slim waist that flowed into long, lean powerful thighs. His pectorals were huge, as was his uncut cock, rising proud and tall from a nest of russet-blond curls. Bucky wanted to get his hands and mouth on both of them, all of him, had no idea where to start. He was a starving man and Steve’s body was a feast, one he was going to devour his fill of as soon as possible.

Steve apparently felt the same way. As Bucky rose up, Steve lunged forward, their mouths colliding in a mutual agreement of joy and hunger. Where their first kisses had been clumsy, this kiss was all need and desperation, their lips slotting together as if the other was the only thing keeping them alive. Their bodies quickly followed, the head of Steve’s dick pressing against the ridge of Bucky’s own, their nipples rubbing together.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Bucky moaned, or maybe it was Steve, his body starting to thrum in the way that meant as good as it was, it was only going to get better. And there was so much of Steve, so fucking much of him, for Bucky to grasp and explore. The plump swell of his ass, the ripples of his back, the strong arch of his neck. Then there were Steve’s glorious tits, where his nipples were pulled into hard, tight little peaks that grew even harder beneath Bucky’s fingertips.

“Oh god,” Steve shivered as Bucky continued to circle and caress.

“Sensitive,” Bucky murmured his approval.

“Always were,” Steve panted. “But it got even worse after the serum.”

“Not worse. Better,” Bucky decided, ducking his head to take the left one into his mouth, where he licked and kissed and sucked. “I love a man with sensitive nipples. Do you think I could get you to come like this?”

“Probably,” Steve squeaked after a particularly sharp nip.

“Good to know,” Bucky continued his ministrations. “’Cos I’ll tell you what, I could probably come from rubbing my dick all over them.” Steve whimpered. Bucky switched to the other nipple. “Would you like that sweetheart? Would you like me to come all over your beautiful tits?”

“Oh god, your mouth,” Steve gasped, pressing a hand to the back of Bucky’s head, holding him in place. “The fucking mouth on you.” He clasped his fingers in Bucky’s hair, tightening his hold, and it was Bucky’s turn to shiver, an involuntary reaction making his mouth go slack. And that was interesting; he hadn’t known he would react that way to having his hair pulled.

“Why’d you stop?” Steve asked, his chest still heaving.

“I think I just discovered a new kink,” Bucky admitted, a bit wide eyed himself.

“Oh really?” Steve gave another tug, a little harder this time, smiling at Bucky’s uncontrolled gasp. “Well isn’t that good to know.” A third yank, not too hard, but with enough strength Bucky was forced to arch his neck. “Think I could make you come like this… _Sweetheart._ ”

Steve may have been inexperienced compared to Bucky, but he’d always been a quick learner, knowing how to take advantage of an opportunity when it presented itself. He began to trail kisses and licks along Bucky’s neck, quickly finding the spot behind Bucky’s ear that always made his toes curl.

“You motherfucker,” Bucky groaned, but his body was melting, sinking into the dueling sensations of a hand pulling his hair and his skin being sucked.

“Uh-huh.” Bucky could feel Steve’s laugh on the spot he’d just licked. “Now tell what I need to do next, because I really need to fuck you Bucky. Like right now.”

“Lube, top drawer, right side of the bed,” Bucky croaked. Steve reached with one hand, keeping the other in Bucky’s hair, as if Bucky had any intentions of moving.

“Got it,” Steve grunted, the mattress shifting once he had what he was looking for.

“Now get your fingers all slick, nice and wet. You’re going to have to finger me open. Start with one and go slow. I’ll tell you when I‘m ready for another. But it shouldn’t take too long. I can be a real cockwhore when the mood strikes me, and you’ve got me desperate for it.”

“Oh my god,” Steve gulped, his pupils blown so wide there was barely any blue. Apparently he had a thing for dirty talk. Who knew? “It won’t hurt you?”

“Not if you do it right,” Bucky encouraged. “If you do, you’ll end up sliding right in, all nice and easy.”

“OK,” Steve nodded, but he was still kissing Bucky, still hadn’t let go of his hair.

“Or we could keep doing this.” Bucky kissed him back, his hands curled around Steve’s shoulders. “This works too.”

“No, no, I want to do that, the finger thing. And then…”

“Yeah, and then,” Bucky purred. “That’s really gonna be good.”

The promise in Bucky’s voice was enough incentive for Steve to finally let go of his hair, shifting back, bottle clenched in his hand. Bucky spread his thighs, making enough room for Steve to kneel between them, watching as Steve’s gaze darted between Bucky’s ass and the lube. Then Steve nodded again, more to himself than Bucky, flipped open the cap and covered his fingers in a healthy coating of slick.

“Remember, just one at first,” Bucky reminded him. “Start with a circle at the rim, getting it all relaxed. If you do it right, I’ll practically suck your finger inside.”

“Oh god,” Steve whimpered. It was the last thing either of them said for a while. Steve was intent on his task, and Bucky was discovering Steve really did know how to pay attention to even the smallest of details. He started off light, using his index finger to caress Bucky’s rim, fascinated by the way Bucky’s asshole fluttered in response to his touch. He was cataloging every hitch and twitch of Bucky’s breathing, and didn’t need Bucky to tell him when he was ready for him to press inside.

And just like Bucky promised, Steve’s finger slid in easily, and it was his turn to gasp at the warmth Bucky knew he was feeling.

“Is that good?” Steve asked.

“Uh-huh,” Bucky sighed. “How’s it feeling for you?”

“Tight. Hot,” Steve admitted.

“Just imagine how it’s going to feel around your dick.”

Steve made a sound that might have been an _eep._

“Take your time, you can explore,” Bucky told him. “If you curl your finger just a little bit, you should feel a small bump- _oh yeah, that’s it, right there!_ ” Bucky’s cock released a burst of pre-come, a hot splatter that dribbled from its tip and onto his stomach. Noticing, because of course he did, Steve pressed against the spot again. And again. And then again, practically cooing every time Bucky whimpered.

“Another finger, another finger, you can give me another one,” Bucky demanded.

“Yeah OK.” The pressure against Bucky’s ass increased, followed by a stretch as Steve slid a second of his broad, thick fingers in. But this time, instead of just watching, Steve leaned forward to lap at the drop of pre-come pearling on his stomach, humming in pleasure at the taste.

“Another, gimme another.” Bucky’s hips were starting to cant of their own accord, seeking a deeper press, a harder thrust. Steve didn’t say anything this time, just did what Bucky asked, the stretch now a burn, a blissful one Bucky’s entire body arched into.

“Oh my god,” Steve whispered, breathless and shocked. “Look at you, just look at you. You’re so beautiful like this. _Bucky._ ” He ran his free hand along the inside of Bucky’s thigh, from knee to the crease of his groin, his fingers leaving hot trails before cradling Bucky’s balls, stroking the thin skin with his thumb. Bucky needed to stop this now, or else it would be over before they had the chance to get started. With the way his body was already thrumming, he knew he wouldn’t last long. His version of the serum gave him a quick recovery time, and he assumed it was the same for Steve, but he still wanted to come around Steve’s dick before they explored anything else.

“All right, that’s enough, I’m ready,” Bucky said, slapping at Steve’s thigh to get him to stop. Steve immediately did.

“Are you all right? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, not a goddamned thing,” Bucky assured him. “Now hand me the lube. It’s my turn to get you ready.” Bucky took the bottle from Steve and covered his right hand with the slick. Then he reached between Steve’s legs, grasped his magnificent cock in a firm but not too tight hold, running his palm up and down the length of it, until it was completely covered in a glistening shine. He added a twist at the end, right beneath the head, and then the smallest flick of his thumb at its tip, laughing in delight when Steve’s eyelids fluttered. “Should I keep going or do you want me to stop?” Steve clasped his wrist, pulling Bucky’s hand away, making his desire clear.

“What do I do next?” he asked.

Bucky grabbed a pillow, shoving it under his hips so they were at the right angle and reached for Steve. “Now you just slide it in. You got me nice and ready, and I’m all wet, so I should suck you right in. Go slow but don’t take too long either, ‘cos I don’t know if you noticed sweetheart, but I’m a bit little desperate for you right now.”

“You’ll tell me if it hurts? If I do something wrong?” Steve pressed a tiny kiss to the bridge of Bucky’s nose, followed by one to his eyelid and then the other. It was the kisses, tiny as they were, and the question that did it, loosening something Bucky hadn’t known was tight in his chest, a sigh from his deepest depths, the darkness where stars formed now burning bright.

“Yeah Stevie, I will,” Bucky kissed Steve in return, shared with him the kindness. “I promise.”

Steve nodded, and then there was a blunt but steady pressure against Bucky’s asshole. This had always been one of Bucky’s favorite parts of sex with a man; the initial resistance giving way to the burn that stretched him to his limits. It should have been too much, too overwhelming, but on that very edge was the bliss of achievement, surrender, acceptance, and Bucky could float on that feeling for days. Steve was big, bigger than anyone Bucky had been with in the past, but it felt so good, not because of his size, but because it was Steve.

“Is it good? Am I doing it right?” he had the nerve to ask when Bucky’s skin was already singing with joy.

“Oh god yeah,” Bucky moaned, feeling the heft of Steve’s balls against his ass, knowing he was all the way inside. “Now move and it’ll get even better.”

Steve, for once, took him at his word, and started to pump his hips against Bucky’s body. The slick drag of it, the ever increasing heat would have been more than enough, but Steve was also kissing him, panting into his mouth, burbling nonsense, his shoulders tight beneath the clench of Bucky’s hands. Bucky moved with him, matching his rhythm, every shift of their bodies a new sensation, a raindrop of pleasure to lap from each other’s skin.

And then Steve, because he could multitask, remembered Bucky’s hair, giving it a tug at the exact same time he kissed Bucky, their tongues mimicking their bodies, and Bucky’s forgot about every else except for joy and Steve and what a blessing sex could be when it was with someone you loved. He shivered and shook and almost cried as his body lurched and rewarded him, rewarded them both, with his release.

Steve made a gasping sound, either in shock or in response to the tight clench of Bucky’s body, and then it was his turn to shiver and shake, and Bucky’s body was again grateful when it felt the heat of Steve’s spend coat his insides.

Bucky was not a religious man, hadn’t been one in his youth, and he placed no value in chastity nor did he think lust was a sin. As long as both participants were willing and honest with each other, he saw no issue with sex in any form. But at that moment, as he lay beneath Steve, their arms still wrapped around each other, he understood the grace of it, why some viewed it as a sacrament. Lying with someone you loved, sharing your body with them, was a gift that needed to be respected, cherished, treated with care. It left one stronger than they dared dream possible, and more vulnerable than almost anything else could. It was love that found the balance, built the bridge between those extremes and made it both something to be reckoned with and revered. A gift between two people because only the other could fully understand how truly precious it was.

And that night, Bucky felt generous, abundant, overflowing as he ran his hands through Steve’s hair and pressed kisses to his lips, their pulses pounding in synch, their skin unable to tell one from the other.

“How’re you doing?” Bucky dared to asked when their sweat cooled and the burn of what he always felt for Steve banked itself back in his heart.

“That was…that was…” Steve panted against his cheek.

“Yeah,” all Bucky could do was agree. It _was._

“What about you?” Steve wanted to know, sliding his arms beneath Bucky’s shoulders. “You doing OK? That was good for you?”

“Stevie,” Bucky smiled, “that was amazing. But then again, I always knew it would be with you.”

“Same,” Steve murmured, tightening his embrace, as if they could get any closer than they already were. Apparently he was a cuddler after sex. Bucky had no complaints. He liked to touch and be touched, at least when it was with someone he trusted. After fifty-five years of cruelty and being denied this most basic human need, his flesh still sometimes ached for the heat, the comfort of another person.

“I really had no idea.” It was Steve’s turn to laugh with a small shake of his head. “But it’s you. There’s no other way it could’ve been.”

“No regrets then?” Bucky needed to make sure.

“Only that we waited this long,” Steve was quick to answer. “We could’ve been doing this decades ago.”

“Well, just think of how much fun we can have making up for it now,” Bucky trailed his fingertips down the length of Steve’s spine.

“Oh really?” Steve asked, a glint in his eyes that always meant trouble.

“Yes really.” Bucky raised his head to press a kiss to the column of Steve’s throat, right above the pulse point, the steadiness of it beneath his lips matching the steadiness of Steve himself. “Cos you and me Stevie, we’re just getting started.”

***

Later, much later, once the sheets were damp from Bucky showing Steve even more ways a man’s body could give and yield to pleasure, and Steve proved that yes indeed, he really did know how to give a blowjob, they lay together in the aftermath of several hours very well spent. Steve was once again on top of Bucky in a heavy sprawl, pressing tiny kiss after kiss upon the divot in Bucky’s chin.

“Is there chocolate in there?” Bucky asked. If he had the energy, he would have frowned.

“Shuddup,” Steve growled after another kiss. “I love that little dimple. Been wanting to kiss it for as long as I could remember.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm,” Steve hummed, doing it again. “Always been fascinated by it.”

“Just my chin?” Bucky tilted his head back, arching his neck. Steve thankfully took the hint and began to run even more kisses under his jawline.

“Among other things,” Steve admitted, pulling back. But he didn’t go far, just enough to peer at Bucky through eyelashes that were golden in the early twilit light pouring through the windows. He cocked his head, a small smile on his face, before he reached out and ran a hand through the hair at Bucky’s temple. “This too.”

Bucky could only imagine what his hair looked like. He started the day with it pulled into a high ponytail, but it was loose now, half of it clinging to his still sweaty neck, and he had no idea where the hair tie ended up. He probably looked a wreck, but Steve didn’t seem to care as he twirled a strand of it between his fingers.

“I like the colors,” he smiled, referencing the multiple shades of red and gold Bucky dyed the locks closest to his face. “Different than what I was expecting, but it suits you.”

“They’re a pain to do, but I have fun with it,” Bucky shrugged.

“I like ‘em.” Steve began carding his fingers through Bucky’s hair, and he suddenly understood why Purrzilla and Catcula spent hours in his lap, purring beneath his hand. He felt much the same way.

“You should let me do yours,” he offered.

“Are you serious?” Steve snorted.

“Yeah, why not? I’ve got everything I need here, and with you already being blond the color should take, no problem. You just have to decide what you want.”

“You’re really serious,” Steve pulled back again to squint at Bucky.

“Steve,” Bucky stated flatly. “If I can handle a monthly coloring session with my seniors at Regency Woodland, I think I can manage dying your hair.”

“You really dye the hair of the people at your old folks’ home?” Steve blinked at him.

“Yeah, why not?” Bucky reiterated. “It’s their hair. If they want pink and blues and green swirls, who am I to tell them no?”

“No wonder they love you over there,” Steve laughed.

“It’s mutual,” Bucky admitted without any shame. Why wouldn’t he? He loved his Fab Five. “What about you? I could probably manage a red, white and blue theme if you wanted one.”

Steve actually took a minute to consider his answer before he spoke.

“Nah,” he shook his head. “Maybe next time though.”

“Is there going to be a next time?” Bucky asked. Because this was new and long-awaited, but that didn’t mean it was permanent either.

“Yeah Bucky,” Steve whispered softly; as soft as the smile on his face and the one in his eyes. “There’s definitely going to be a next time.” Then he leaned forward and took Bucky back into his arms, kissing him slow and deep and full of promise.

“Good.” And what else could Bucky do but kiss him back?


	36. 2016 - Jared Brian Benton (a.k.a. Bucky) (Cont'd...)

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? As inevitable as their coming together may have seemed, they were two very different men who lived two very different lives. And their time in the little bubble of Bucky’s barn was running out.

Steve, after asking Bucky if it was all right, managed to extend it another week, calling Sam and explaining the two of them still had a lot of catching up to do and since Sam was always urging Steve to take some time off, he was going to heed his advice and stay for another seven days.

As Bucky was in the kitchen with Steve when he made the call, he heard Sam’s unconvinced _“Uh-huh,”_ but after that Sam surprisingly let it lie. When Steve also tried to insist Sam and Natalia didn’t have to wait and could head back to DC without him, he was informed his two teammates were enjoying exploring Salem, and as they could use a break themselves, they had no objections to extending their visit there either.

“Do you think they know?” Bucky asked once Steve disconnected the call. He was pretty sure Natalia did, but he couldn’t speak for Sam.

“I am going to get so much shit when I see them again,” Steve rolled his eyes. But since he was also smiling, Bucky thought Steve was certain it was worth it.

And they did have a lot of catching up to do, that was true, and their bodies were quick to take advantage of the removal of the roadblock time and their own individual insecurities placed in their way.

Steve may not have had as much experience as Bucky, but he was a quick learner and adept student, even more so when the subject interested him. Since the subject in question was Bucky’s body, he devoted all his attention to improving his skills. Especially once Bucky made sure to leave his copy of _The Joy of Gay Sex_ on the kitchen island, where he knew Steve would find it.

“Does that say what I think it says?” Steve asked, squinting at the cover.

“Yep.”

“They actually print stuff like this now?” was Steve’s next question.

“Yep.”

“And you can buy it in any bookstore?” he wanted to know.

“Yep.”

“It’s uh – It’s pretty thick.” As of yet, Steve hadn’t actually touched the book, just kept staring at it.

“That’s what she said.”

“And you have this because…?” Steve finally reached for it.

“Rebecca,” Bucky grumbled.

“What?” Steve dropped the book as if it bit him.

“When she found out I liked men as much as women, she went out and bought that book for me. Came home one day and found it lying on my pillow, along with _The Joy of Sex_. She thought it was hilarious. I wanted to bury both of them in the backyard.” Bucky remembered that day, his startled yelp and Becca’s hysterical giggles. Bucky had been unable to look her in the eye for at least a week, which only made Becca’s teasing worse. But it had helped; not only his sister’s use of humor to show her acceptance but the information contained within the books. He’d read them cover to cover, and when he finished he possessed a greater understanding of both his and other people’s sexuality.

“You obviously didn’t,” Steve stated the obvious.

“No, I didn’t,” Bucky agreed. “And they’re interesting. There’s a lot of information in there, stuff I sure as shit didn’t know, and it’s pretty frank without talking about anything like it’s dirty. It’s a good starting point and has a lot of advice.”

“Okay.”

“The pictures are pretty detailed too,” Bucky shrugged.

“There are pictures?” Steve eyed the book, his expression a mix between surprise and fascination.

“Lots and lots of them,” Bucky nodded. “In color.”

“Huh,” Steve said, giving in to his curiosity.

Steve may have been inexperienced compared to Bucky, but that did not mean he was inhibited. He grew up during a time when sex was not discussed in front of polite company and some of that carried over into how he interacted with the modern world. But contrary to how the public perceived him, Steve could always curse a blue streak and wasn’t shy about making his opinions known. And there was a big difference between politeness and prudishness, and now they were lovers Steve revealed sides of himself even Bucky hadn’t been aware of.

He was enthusiastic and energetic in bed, always willing to explore, asking lots and lots of questions, making sure Bucky was enjoying whatever he was doing, but also quick to let Bucky know if he didn’t like something. He was also considerate, observant and generous, as well as very, very vocal, especially the first time Bucky topped and Steve shouted loud enough to send the cats scampering down the stairs.

“I take it you liked that then?” Bucky asked when they finally separated, the both of them staring dazedly up at the ceiling.

“Uh-huh,” was all Steve was able to manage at first. “Although I don’t think page sixty-two actually did it justice.”

“Page sixty-two?” Bucky was confused at first, until it clicked and he sputtered in disbelief. “Are you actually keeping a _list?_ ”

“Uh-huh,” Steve repeated, like the little shit he was. “It’s actually a pretty long one.”

“I swear to god, Stevie, if you start asking me for post it notes I’m gonna kick you outta this bed.”

“Don’t need post its,” Steve tapped his temple. “Eidetic memory. And those pictures are really great.”

Bucky couldn’t help it, he burst out laughing. “Oh my god, your pillow talk is _awful._ ”

“Yeah well, I haven’t gotten to the chapter on that yet,” Steve snorted, and then they were both laughing.

That was the other thing about sex with Steve; it was fun and they ended up laughing a lot. But they were friends first, who had always been able to make each other laugh, even during, _especially during_ , the worst times, and that friendship, that ability carried over into their sex life.

They didn’t just have sex though, although they did have _lots_ of that. They talked too, continued to get know one another. Steve asked more questions about Bucky’s life, the places he travelled to, the people he considered friends, what he liked most about living in Salem. He smiled when Bucky revealed his plans to study physical therapy so he could continue working with the elderly, nothing but pride and encouragement in his eyes. They even touched briefly on Bucky’s darker days, how he found his way to Becca and her endless support during his recovery. Whispers in the dark, when Steve held Bucky’s hand and stroked his hair while Bucky recounted how lost he’d been, how afraid, the physical and mental hurdles he needed to overcome.

In exchange, Steve shared his own recent experiences, how unprepared he had been to wake up and discover he was now a legend written about in books and discussed in history classes. The pressure he felt, as well as the knowledge he was being handled, manipulated at first, and his own disappointment and frustration in so many of the choices the government made. How he sometimes felt like a property and not a person, and the way he’d not had anyone to turn to, to trust, at first. Things Bucky was certain Steve shared with no one else.

But then again, they’d always kept each other’s secrets, a keepsake box of two, their trust in the other the key to keeping it safe.

Bucky found himself thinking whatever Steve’s reasons for searching him out, he needed this respite. It wasn’t a blast from the past, two men reminiscing about the “good old days,” but the planting of a garden that would bloom in the future. Bucky didn’t ask Steve for his opinion on the matter, but he didn’t need to. He could see it. At first Bucky assumed Steve would grow bored with the day to day of Bucky’s life, the small tasks he did around the house, the walks he took, the garden he so carefully tended. They never ventured into Salem, just spent their time together, and with each passing day something in Steve changed, grew looser, stronger, even brighter than before, if that were possible. He wondered if he looked the same way, if when he went back to _A Little Bit of Honey and A Little Bit of Spice_ or Regency Woodland, his friends would notice the metamorphosis.

And what would happen to him when Steve inevitably went home. It was the one thing they hadn’t discussed yet, that aspect of the future and how they would proceed from here.

Steve was the one to bring it up, because of course it would be Steve, two nights before his flight back to DC. They were sitting on Bucky’s back porch, FB between them, Bucky whittling a small piece of wood, and Steve leaning back on his hands, staring up at the star speckled sky when he broached the topic.

“I’m flying out in two days.”

“I know.” Bucky didn’t bother looking up from the figurine he was carving, two cats curled around each other.

“But I don’t want to leave you, not now. Not ever,” Steve said. His words were enough to make Bucky stop his woodworking and look at Steve.

“You don’t?” he asked.

“No, I don’t, I never did, and I never will,” Steve shook his head. “But…”

“But you’re Captain America and the world needs Captain America,” Bucky finished for him.

“Yes. No. That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean then?” Bucky pressed. Steve sighed and sat up, draping his forearms over his knees.

“I was Steve Rogers before I ever was Captain America. And when I first signed up for the war, it was because there were Nazis out there, and they needed to be taken care of. But then we find out it wasn’t just the Nazis but HYDRA too. And they’re still out there,” he began slowly, as if sketching the outlines of the map of his life.

“Don’t I know it,” Bucky snorted.

“So I’m not done yet, because they need to be taken care of. But after that…” he trailed off.

“After that?” Bucky urged when he didn’t go on.

“Is it selfish of me to want an after that?” Steve looked toward Bucky as if he honestly expected him to know what to say.

“I can’t answer that for you,” Bucky confessed, then waved a hand at the woods surrounding his barn. “This is my after that, and it’s the right one for me.”

“What if it’s the right one for me too?” Steve asked.

“What’re you getting at?”

Steve broke their gaze first, focusing his attention on his sneaker clad feet, chewing his lip, not saying a word. Bucky didn’t press; he couldn’t speak for Steve. Steve was the only one who could do that.

“Becca wrote me a letter, did you know that?” was what he started with.

“No,” Bucky shook his head.

“It was in the box she left for me. In it, she talked about three miracles. And it got me thinking, you know, about miracles and the power of three. If there was a first miracle, I guess you could say it was me not dying when I crashed the Valkyrie. The second one was definitely finding out you were still alive. What if the third miracle is this?” It was Steve’s turn to wave his hand in the air, at the trees, the sky, Bucky’s porch, his chicken coop and garden. “A chance to live with you like I always wanted to, where no one can tell us we can’t, and I don’t have to hide how I feel for you.”

Bucky was so surprised he dropped his whittling. “Steve, are you actually saying what I think you’re saying?”

“It’s not done yet, I’m not done yet, so I can’t stay, even though I want to, and…”

“And?”

“And I know I’ve got no right to ask this of you, but would you be willing to wait for me while I finish taking care of HYDRA? Not Captain America, but me, Steve? Could I come home here, to you, when I’m done?”

The hunger in Steve’s eyes, his words, the beautiful exquisite hunger. Hope and longing, fear and honesty, belief and love, the pain of a miracle being born between two battered and bruised soldiers beneath a starlit sky.

It took bravery and courage to speak of such things. But then again Steve never needed a vibranium shield to hide behind to be truly brave.

“We’d have to be careful,” Bucky heard himself saying before he could stop himself. “If you’re going after HYDRA, they can’t know about me. It’s too big of a risk, even now.”

“They are never, ever getting their hands on you, _ever again,_ ” Steve growled. “Why do you think I’m doing this?”

“But yeah…I’d be willing to wait for you,” Bucky smiled a smile tremulous and new, as unsteady as the legs of a newborn colt, but growing stronger with every passing second. “I’ve already waited this long, and I’d wait a thousand years for you if I had to, just so you can have a place to come home to when you’re done.”

“You’re my home, Bucky Barnes,” Steve’s smile looked as fragile and as strong as Bucky’s own. “You’ve always been my home, and there’s no place I want to be if you’re not there.”

There were no more words or any promises after that. But there didn’t need to be. Instead there were kisses and relief, and a star not in the sky, but sitting on the back porch of a barn on the outskirts of Salem, burning brighter than any of its siblings up above, as Bucky and Steve held onto each other and let themselves believe in the promise of tomorrow.

***

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Steve asked. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, and I’m not going to force you. But it would help.”

“I know,” Bucky nodded and stepped into the living area of the barn where Sam and Natalia were patiently sitting on the couch, an array of maps spread out on the coffee table.

True to his word, Steve was insistent Bucky not get involved in his pursuit of any remaining HYDRA cells. Instead he asked, and only if Bucky were completely willing, for this; the location of any bases, safehouses or other facilities he could remember. Opting for paper instead of anything that could possibly be hacked, the maps were already marked in red where Steve and his team previously struck, Natalia’s neat handwriting indicating addresses and dates. They had already eliminated a large portion of the places Bucky remembered, as well as some he’d never been to, but there were quite a few they hadn’t discovered yet. Which was why Bucky was doing this.

“And you swear you won’t tell anybody where you got this information from?” Even though they promised, Bucky needed one last confirmation.

“Anonymous source,” Natalia shook her head. “And I’ve always been extremely protective of my anonymous sources.”

“No one outside of this room will even know we were here,” Steve swore.

“You need to remember anything I do know will already be sixteen years out of date,” Bucky studied the maps carefully.

“And that’s fine,” Steve assured him. “But it’s better to leave no stone unturned, especially when it comes to HYDRA.”

“Right then,” Bucky sighed, kneeling in front of the coffee table and pulling the nearest map closer. “Hand me a pen.”

All in all, there were twelve new places not previously marked on the maps. For several of them, he wasn’t sure of the address, only the city. But through Natalia’s careful guidance and the use of Google’s street view, they were usually able to narrow the location to a five-block radius. They were mostly safehouses, but as he flipped through the ragged pages of memories in a mental book he long ago slammed shut, Bucky was able to identify one large base as of yet uncovered in Salzburg, a research facility in Sarajevo and a data storage center in Maracaibo. A good starting point, according to Steve, and certainly more than they had when they started. Over the course of the process, Bucky was also able to recall the names of several key political figures in various countries not listed in the data dump, which Natalia dutifully made note of.

It was a tense two hours, Steve and his team asking insightful, concise questions and Bucky forcing himself to remember things he tried so hard to forget.

“Are you alright, JB?” Sam asked once they were done, Natalia folding up the maps and storing them away somewhere in her clothing.

“No,” Bucky shook his head. “But I will be, and it was worth it.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Sam followed up with.

“I’ll be fine,” Bucky insisted. “I’ve got a journal I use to write things down in when I need to sort the shit in my head.”

“That’s a good technique.” Sam was using his counselor voice, soothing and encouraging. His eyes were sincere and his expression open, non-judgmental, and Bucky couldn’t help but think he must have done an exceptional job at the VA. He was a good person, as was Natalia, and Bucky was glad they were the ones at Steve’s side through all this.

“My sister came up with the idea, when I first got back,” Bucky said instead of all that, glancing at the photo of them together, one of many, on his mantel.

“She sounds like a class act, and a real smart lady,” Sam followed his gaze.

“She was,” Bucky readily agreed.

“None better,” Steve added.

“I’m sorry you lost her then.” Sam reached out, making his intentions clear, before placing a warm and comforting hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “I have a baby sister myself, and as much as she’s a pain in my ass, I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“You grieve,” Bucky said, not seeing Sam’s face, but Becca’s on the last day of her life, wrinkled and old, but still smiling at him. “But then you go on. Because that’s what they want you to do.”

“True enough, but it’s still not easy,” Sam squeezed Bucky’s shoulder, just once, before letting go.

“No. It’s not,” was all Bucky could say.

And then it was time for another goodbye, this one hopefully nowhere near as permanent, but almost as bittersweet.

“Don’t worry,” Natalia whispered in Russian in his ear, as they stood on his porch hugging. “I’ll make sure he comes home.” While they hadn’t said anything, he wouldn’t be surprised to discover she knew what Steve was planning. It was her nature not only to weave webs, but to read them as well. But she was speaking not as the Black Widow, but Natalia, the girl he once danced with.

“Thank you,” he said in kind.

“And take care of yourself as well,” she pressed a kiss to each of his cheeks, “you still owe me a dance.”

“I look forward to it.” And he did. She smiled at him, a miniscule crinkling of her nose and eyes, before joining Sam in the car.

It was Steve’s turn next. He did not have Natalia’s catlike grace or coy demeanor, but then again Steve had always been an entity unto himself. If someone was smart, they got out of his way. If they were Bucky, well, they fell in love with him instead.

The clench of his arms was fierce and all encompassing, and Bucky took a deep inhale of the skin of his neck to imprint the scent, the freshness of water, the brightness of lemons, and beneath that something that was just _Steve_ , into his mind. It would have to hold him over for however long this lasted.

“Give me a year,” Steve said into his ear, as if it were such an easy thing. A year, twelve months, with no visits and limited contact. Steve understood, and Natalia agreed, why they couldn’t see each other while Steve completed this last mission. It was unlikely there was anyone still alive who knew about HYDRA’s deadliest weapon, but they could not afford to risk that changing. If it was somehow discovered not only was the Winter Soldier alive, but he was a super-soldier with a cybernetic arm, Bucky would end up spending the rest of his days on the run, not something any of them wanted. So Steve would have to do this alone, while Bucky resumed his life as Jared Brian Benton, keeping the home fires burning in wait for his own soldier’s return. “I won’t expect you to wait for me if it takes any longer than that.”

“I’ll wait as long as it takes,” Bucky promised him, because it was the truth after all. “I’ll always wait for you.”

“And then we’ll…” Instead of finishing, Steve kissed him, deep and hard and full of his own promises.

“Yeah, we will,” Bucky forced himself to smile, carefully slipping the figurine of the two cats he worked on into Steve’s pocket; a reminder, a token of affection, something of him for Steve to carry with him wherever he went. “Stay safe, Stevie. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“How can I?” Steve laughed. “I’m leaving all my stupid behind.”

“So you say, but this stupid loves you.”

“And this stupid loves you right back. Always has.”

One last hug, one last kiss, one last wave goodbye, and then Bucky watched as Steve climbed into the backseat of the car and drove away with Sam and Natalia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to let you know, there are only a couple more chapters left after this one. It's been a long road for both our boys but the end of their journey is finally on the horizon.
> 
> That said, after this week, no matter where in the world you are, I hope you all had a nice weekend and are someplace safe, healthy and happy.
> 
> 💙


	37. 2017 - Bucky

**2017**

**Bucky**

Orion and his two hunting dogs were bright in the sky as Bucky sat on his front steps on a clear night in February. Purrzilla and Catcula had abandoned him for the warmth of his bed, but Fart Breath was sitting by his side, his head in Bucky’s lap, tail thumping happily as Bucky gave his ear a good scratch. The air was cold, but Bucky was wearing a thick parka, and FB’s body was its own source of heat he willingly shared. Other than that, it was quiet out, most of the woods surrounding the barn sleeping in wait for spring.

They weren’t the only ones waiting.

The previous seven months had not been easy, but they hadn’t been hard either, and after Steve left, Bucky went on with living his life. He spent his time either dyeing the hair or reading to his Fab Five, who were thrilled when he returned after his two-week absence, along with Agnes, who almost cried upon seeing him. He ate as many meals as he could at _A Little Bit of Honey and A Little Bit of Spice_ , happily chatting with both CeCe and Tammy. He continued his woodworking, whittling gifts for his friends and helping CeCe and Tammy when the counter at their diner needed to be updated, and kept changing the colors in his hair whenever he felt like it or a new inspiration struck him. He looked after his chickens and his garden, and began researching what vegetables he could plant, liking the idea of having fresh tomatoes, zucchini and asparagus within arm’s reach when he cooked. He ran, did his yoga in the mornings and read voraciously, because he would never grow tired of the pleasure of discovering new worlds, new ideas, new ways of looking at things through books. In September, he went back to school for the first time in over eighty years in his pursuit of a degree in physical therapy, surprised, delighted by how much he enjoyed his classes. The coursework fascinated him, and he quickly made friends with several of his fellow students, participating in a few study groups and becoming a regular attendee at a biweekly post-class coffee get-together. 

So he’d been busy, not bored, and happy with his life.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t waiting for someone though. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t had contact with Steve either.

Quite the opposite actually. Natalia, in either a show of support or approval, set Steve up with an untraceable burner phone, its twin arriving in his mail in an unmarked box a week after their last kiss on the porch, accompanied by a note that read, _Was he always this mopey?_

Since then, they texted each other throughout day, and usually spoke several times a week, as they continued the process of getting to know one another. Bucky told him about his classes, his instructors, the friends he made, what he was reading to his Fab Five, and Catcula’s latest kill, a rabbit she left on the back porch. While Steve never gave away his location, he shared as much of his days as he could, the local cuisine either Natalia or Sam forced him to try, a new song he’d heard and liked, and his feelings on a recently discovered passion, basketball. There were even a few video calls, where Steve, looking tired but always happy to see Bucky, never failed to comment on his hair and Bucky showed him his latest piece of whittling.

Sometimes during those calls, Natalia would shove Steve out of the way, telling him to go take a shower, and they would spend the next fifteen minutes chatting for a bit. They had never talked together, not like this, and Bucky found he enjoyed getting to know her as well. For all her cool determination and self-contained presence, he sensed even she needed the occasional distraction, and he recommended webcomics and books he thought she might like. By the time Steve returned, looking refreshed, her smile would be easier than it was, and the sound of her delighted laughter became something he grew to cherish.

One time Sam initiated a video conference, which was something he never did, and Bucky instantly panicked.

“Nah, nah man, we’re all alright. Steve’s not hurt, none of us are,” Sam was quick to reassure.

“Then what’s going on?” Bucky demanded.

“It’s just,” Sam glanced over his shoulder. In the background, Bucky could hear Natalia murmuring to Steve. “One of the locations you told us about,” Sam looked apologetic, but he still pressed on, “was where they used to keep you. He never reacts well when we find one of those.”

“Oh,” Bucky immediately understood. While his tempter had never run as hot as Steve’s, if their situations were reversed he could only imagine how he would react.

“Yeah, _oh,_ ” Sam sighed. “Nat’s bandaging up his hands, but if you could just talk to him for a bit, let him hear your voice, it’ll help him calm down.”

“Put him on,” Bucky nodded.

“Yo Steve! I got your boy on the line. He wants to talk to you!” Sam’s face disappeared only to be replaced by Steve’s thirty seconds later. Bucky was prepared to yell, to try to shout some common sense into Steve’s thick skull. But that had never worked, not once, in the past. And Steve really did look awful, his eyes bloodshot, his skin pale. He was feeling guilty about things beyond his control and helpless, a very typical Steve reaction, and the last thing he needed was to be patronized. Bucky decided to take a different tact.

“So you know what that little shit Steve did three days ago?” Bucky began before Steve could say anything.

“Me? What did I to?” Steve was frowning, preparing for a fight.

“Not you. My stupid fucking chicken.”

“Oh,” Steve blinked, caught off guard. “No, what did she do?”

“The little bitch attacked a skunk.”

“ _She_ _what?_ ”

“Apparently the skunk was after the eggs and tried to sneak into the coop. And Steve, as we all know, does not like strangers.”

“Who won?” The shift in Steve’s mood from upset to captivated was nearly instantaneous.

“That depends on who you ask,” Bucky scowled. “She nearly pecked the thing to death, but skunks are skunks for a reason, and that fucker had some damned good aim. To top it all off, Fart Breath had to get involved, cos you know, he’s not stinky enough. By the time it was all over, I had a chicken that smelled like a skunk, a dog that usually smells like hell’s asshole that now smells like a chicken that smells like a skunk, and a set of clothes I had to burn. Do you know how hard it is to bathe a chicken, especially _that_ chicken, in tomato juice? And I still have no idea where the goddamned skunk went. It’s probably somewhere in Alaska by now.”

By the time the call finished, Steve had nearly fallen out of his chair he’d laughed so hard, his eyes were clear and his smile honest. And Sam’s follow up text of _Thanks_ let Bucky know his own personal embarrassment was more than worth it.

Sometimes Steve went dark, usually for a week, and one time even two. Steve did his best to warn Bucky beforehand, and the relief Bucky felt when his phone vibrated in his pocket was matched only by the speed he used to reach for it. Those weeks were hard, and Bucky always worried, but he forced himself to remember Steve was the best at what he did, with a damned good team backing him up, and there was a reason Steve was doing what he was doing. It didn’t quell the fear, but it made it easier to handle, and allowed him to focus on his own life.

They hadn’t been able to spend Christmas together, which had also been difficult, but they knew that ahead of time. Three days prior to the actual holiday, Bucky received another unmarked package in his mail, that once opened revealed a finely honed whittling knife with a mother of pearl handle from Natalia, a scarf with chickens on it from Sam, and a book filled with sketches along with a beautiful block of pink ivory wood from Steve. In exchange Bucky sent Steve photos of the wreath he hung on his door, him and his Fab Five at the Christmas dinner he agreed to attend as a volunteer, one of him and CeCe where they both wore Santa hats, and a final one of Purrzilla, Catcula and Fart Breath, where his dog was wearing a pair of antlers. Followed by a text that simply said, _Merry Christmas sweetheart. Can’t wait to see you again. I miss you. XO_

**From unknown number:** _Same._

**From unknown number:** _And soon._

Not soon enough, in Bucky’s opinion, but it was what it was, and for now it would have to do.

Except Steve had always been a determined motherfucker, especially when he set his mind to something, and Bucky should have remembered that.

Steve asked him for a year, but three weeks ago at the beginning of February and only seven months after the last time they saw each other, the Avengers held a press conference where Steve announced his retirement, telling the world he was passing on the mantel of Captain America and his shield to Sam. When asked why, Steve simply said, “I joined the Army because Nazis were threatening the world and they needed to be stopped. And then it was HYDRA. When I woke up five years ago, I discovered HYDRA was still around and my job wasn’t done. But they’re gone now, we’ve made sure of it. And while there’s no better team in the world, it’s time for me to step down. There are things I need to do and a promise I made, and its long past time for me to keep it.”

The world went crazy with the news, and everyone seemed to have an opinion about it, including Bucky’s Fab Five.

“I’m happy for him,” Izzie said the day after the press conference, once Bucky escorted her back to her room.

“Who?” Bucky asked, playing ignorant as he made sure she was comfortable.

“Steve Rogers,” she smiled at Bucky while he arranged her blankets.

“Are you really?” he wanted to know.

“Mm-hmm.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because all soldiers deserve to come home. Sometimes it takes them a long time, longer than it should, but that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve it, no matter what they’ve had to do to survive.” She reached out and took his chin into her gnarled hand, forcing him to stop what he was doing and look at her. “All of them. Even you. _Especially you._ ”

When he asked her what she meant, she would say nothing else on the matter, merely smiling and telling him to bring his boyfriend to visit whenever they were ready, and that was all.

That had been three weeks ago. Since then Steve had been laying low, waiting for the hubbub to die down, using Bucky’s old house in Landing as a safehouse of all places. People were still chattering about it, but then a Hollywood heartthrob was caught cheating on his longtime wife with one of his costars and the news shifted its focus. During that time, they spoke to each other over the phone every day.

Two days ago, three large boxes were delivered to Bucky’s address. And just as he finished putting away that night’s dinner dishes, he received a text.

_ETA 40 mins._

Bucky heard him before he saw him, the hum of an engine quickly making its way down the road to his house. Then headlights in the distance, cutting through the dark as they drew closer and closer. FB’s tail began to wag even quicker, matching the _thump-thump-thump_ of Bucky’s heart as a black sedan pulled to a stop in front of the barn.

Then Steve was stepping out of the driver’s seat, a backpack slung over one shoulder and a smile on his face, the only smile in the world that could possibly rival Bucky’s own. A supernova of joy, a rainbow of happiness, a miracle Bucky would forever cherish and keep safe, his and his alone that he would hoard and curl around like a dragon with its pearl, for as long as Steve would let him, forever and ever until the end of time.

Bucky didn’t know which one of them started running first, but within a blink they were crashing together, arms wrapping around each other, holding close, holding tight, neither ever wanting to let go, Fart Breath dancing in happy circles around them. Starved for each other as they were, it was likely the only thing keeping them on their feet. Kisses and laughter and tears too, of _hello_ and _welcome_ and _I missed you so much_.

“You’re here. You’re here,” it was Bucky who spoke first, when he was usually the one to choose silence.

“I am,” Steve nodded into his shoulder, before pulling back to look at his face. “I promised you I’d come back, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Bucky laughed. Steve opened his mouth to say something, but then stopped, squinting at Bucky in the dark

“Are those…red, white and blue streaks in your hair?” he asked.

“Told you I could figure out how to do it,” Bucky grinned at him, slipping his hand into Steve’s.

“You asshole,” it was Steve’s turn to laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now c’mon,” Bucky began leading him up the steps. “I already ate dinner, but I saved some for you and after your flight, you gotta be starving.”

“Your ma’s meatloaf?” Steve asked.

“Course. What else was I gonna make for my best fellah?”

“Oh god, it’s so good to be home,” Steve said, no truer words ever spoken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is only one more chapter after this, an epilogue which checks in with Bucky and Steve now that they're together, which I will post on Friday.
> 
> Until then, in case any of you were curious, I don't write to music, but every story I have written has a song that's been my inspiration while I've plotted it out in my head. [THIS](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bvjNyJ8TBNk) was the song for Pearl, Bucky's theme I suppose you could say, and if you do give it a listen, I hope you can see why.
> 
> **hugs you all** and I'll "see" you on Friday. 💖💖💖


	38. Epilogue - 2019 - Steve (and Bucky)

**2019**

**Steve (and Bucky)**

“You guys made great time. I’m guessing traffic wasn’t too heavy?”

“Never mind that,” Sam lowered the car window two inches and scanned the yard. “Where the hell is it?”

“Where the hell is what?” Steve decided to play dumb.

“Don’t even try to pull that shit on me,” Sam frowned at him. “That demon you keep calling a chicken!”

“Who, Steve?” Steve grinned.

“Yes Steve!” Sam practically snarled.

“I can’t believe you’re afraid of a chicken,” Steve laughed. “It was one time, Sam.”

“It’s every time, Steve! That fucking chicken hates me!”

“She’s actually quite sweet once you get to know her,” Nat said from the other side of the car, her arms wrapped around Bucky. Whenever she came to visit, Steve was now the one who received a quick kiss to each cheek, which he loved. But Natasha always hugged Bucky, _always_ , melting against him in a way Steve never saw before when Bucky returned her embrace.

“We aired out your room and changed the sheets, but nothing else,” Bucky told her, reaching into the trunk for her bag.

“Thank you,” she said, striding toward the door, pausing only to give a happily barking Fart Breath an ear scritch. “And where are my other two little babies?”

“Purrzilla was napping under the tree last I saw her, and Catcula’s probably plotting her next murder,” Bucky followed her into the barn.

“She better not leave whatever it is in one of my sneakers again!” Sam called after them, finally willing to risk leaving the safety of the rental car. “And why does she get a room when I gotta sleep on the sofa bed?”

“Because she actually visits us more than twice a year,” Steve smiled.

“Yeah well, I don’t know if you know this, but being Captain America is a fulltime gig,” Sam said.

“I do know it, that’s why I gave it up. It’s good to see you, Sam.” Steve reached for his own hug.

“You too, Steve,” Sam slapped his back. “Although I’m not so sure about the hair.”

“What?” Steve grabbed Sam’s duffel, slammed the trunk closed and led him toward the house. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s a bit hipster dudebro, don’t you think?” Sam asked, referring to his undercut and streaked bangs.

“Don’t listen to him Steve. I think it looks great.” Natasha was already perched on one of their island stools, sipping a glass of wine and picking through the plate of antipasto Steve prepared for their visit. “It suits you and I like the red.”

“Thanks. Bucky dyed it for me.”

“Of course he did,” Sam rolled his eyes. “And what happened to your beard? I thought you were growing it out.”

“Yeah, no,” Steve ran his fingers over his freshly shaven cheeks. “That was a bad idea.”

“Beard burn on your asshole is not something even the serum helps,” Bucky cut in.

“And that’s my appetite gone for the day,” Sam dropped the piece of provolone he just picked up while Natasha burst out laughing.

“Merry Christmas, Sam,” Steve toasted him with his own glass of wine.

“Fuck you, you nasty ass motherfuckers,” Sam raised his glass.

Technically, it wouldn’t be Christmas for another two days, but it was good to see them both, especially Sam. While they texted and video conferenced regularly, Sam seldom had the time to visit. But that was to be expected; Sam was taking his new role very seriously, and spent the past two years proving to the world it wasn’t the serum or shield that made someone worthy of the Captain America title, but being brave and always willing to do the right thing, even when the right thing was the difficult choice. Steve was so fucking proud of everything Sam accomplished over the past twenty-four months, never once regretting his decision to hand the shield over to him, even if it meant they didn’t get to see each other as often as they once did. He’d known things would change when he made the decision to move to Salem so he could build a life with Bucky, part of the price he had to pay, but as of yet it was proving to be more than worth it.

He assumed it would be the same with Natasha, but contrary to what he originally thought, she spent a lot of time in their home, more than he would have guessed.

Whatever their past together had been, and Steve still didn’t know all the details, it resulted in a unique bond between Bucky and Natasha, one of friendship, respect and to Steve’s surprise, absolute trust between them, especially when it came to Nat. She was easier with Bucky, more relaxed and carefree than she ever was with Steve, and as long as she let them know she was coming, as Bucky still didn’t do too well with surprises, he always greeted her at the door with a warm hug. She was there so often Steve was no longer surprised to come home from running errands to discover them sitting on the couch, chatting in Russian. Or to stumble into the kitchen for his first cup of coffee and see them doing yoga in perfect synch. There had been one occasion when Steve was lucky enough to return from one of his own classes to find all the furniture pushed towards the walls, the two of them dancing ballet, Bucky easily holding her above his head in a gravity defying lift. They danced like that for hours, giving Steve plenty of time to pull out his sketchbook in an attempt to capture the breathtaking grace of how they moved together, a duet between a wolf and a spider that was somehow swanlike and full of flight. Bucky grumbled about his form when they finished, his cheeks flushed, but Natasha had been beaming. Steve’s portrait of them in that moment, now hanging framed on one of the walls in their loft, above the dresser upon which rested Becca’s box, a single wooden rose, two bumble bees, and a final figurine of two cats curled around each other, was the one he was proudest of.

Then there was the day she knocked on their door with a cut on her face and her arm in a sling, limping as she made her way inside, the aftermath of an extremely difficult mission. Not once did she complain about the pain, as that was not her way, but she did let Bucky tend to her injuries, open with him in a way Steve had not seen her be with anyone else. But then again, Bucky was a good nursemaid, attentive and caring, but never suffocating or overbearing about it, which had always been his approach. It worked on Steve, it worked with his Fab Five, and it apparently worked on Natasha as well. She ended up staying for two weeks, leaving only when she felt strong enough to return to work, and after that they decided to build an add on to the barn that was hers and hers alone, whenever she wanted or needed it.

Bucky spoiled her, and perhaps because he did, or perhaps because he was the only person who never wanted anything from her, not even her skills, deadly as they were, she let him, without any ulterior motives. And Bucky was the only one she allowed to call her Natalia. The one, and only time, Steve tried, she glared at him before pinching his arm, _hard_ , reminiscent of the pinch Rebecca gave him the one and only time he was foolish enough to call her Becca-Bee.

Steve also knew if anyone ever dared to hurt Bucky, or even whispered about attempting to take his hard won life away from him, they would receive a visit from the Black Widow that would end with a slit throat, if there was enough of the body remaining to be found.

If Steve didn’t get to them first.

Life with Bucky was better than Steve expected, more than he dared to dream it could be. That wasn’t to say it was perfect, and they still bickered and fought. But they always had, and they more than likely always would. Steve knew he was stubborn and had a tendency to take life too seriously, and Bucky could be moody and sometimes sullen. He’d lived a very hard life that left deep scars on him that would never fade. He occasionally had nightmares, although rarely, and there were days when he was nervous and fidgety, always looking over his shoulder. But he knew how to live with and accept those parts of himself.

It also gave him an astounding amount of patience and insight in regard to Steve’s own experiences, especially now Steve’s life didn’t revolve around the next battle or fight. Steve didn’t regret giving up the shield, but it left him struggling to figure out what to do next.

“It takes time, Stevie,” Bucky always assured him, holding Steve in his arms when his doubts were at their worst. “It took me years to get my head back on straight after everything HYDRA did to me, and then even longer after that to figure out what I wanted to do. There’s no rush and we got plenty of money. Figure out who you are first before you try to decide what you want to do. Those bastards at SHIELD didn’t treat you right either, and while that’s not OK, it _is_ OK to give yourself the space to recover from that.”

It was good advice, and it helped, and Steve spent the past two years doing exactly that, discovering things about himself he hadn’t known before, especially in relation to the new world. That he liked listening to Queen, U2 and Adele, and watching anime. That while Bucky was a really good cook, Steve actually preferred to do most of the cooking, finding something both satisfying and soothing in preparing a meal he was going to share with the person he loved most in the world. After they built Natasha’s room, they focused on the garden. Bucky preferred tending the flowers around the house, but it was Steve who designed and tended their vegetable and herb patch. He let Bucky color his hair in a variety of colors and explored his clothing options, discovering a fondness for soft jeans and thick cable-knit sweaters. He visited Salem with Bucky, and was introduced to all his friends, while using the alias Natasha built for him, Stefan Geoffrey Robertson. He wasn’t sure how many people were fooled, but with his new clothes, streaks in his differently styled hair, and fake horn-rimmed glasses he wore whenever they ventured into the city, no one seemed to recognize him.

But then again, the public had always been more interested in Captain America and whatever image they’d concocted in their head of him, not the Steve Rogers of then or now. That Steve went to farmer’s markets with his boyfriend, read books to a group of five of the most hilarious elderly people he ever met when said boyfriend was busying studying for his finals, packed him lunch and then made sure to pick him up after one of his classes.

Knowing the hard path Bucky traveled to get to where he was, Steve decided to follow his example. He began drawing again, and the walls of their home were now nearly completely covered with his artwork. That led to Steve enrolling in several art classes of his own, which he enjoyed as much as Bucky did his. He wasn’t quite sure yet, but there was an art therapy program he was interested in, and he thought that might be something he pursued, and soon.

In the interim, he lived and laughed and loved with Bucky, grateful for every second, every moment, day, month and year they got to share. Steve lost him once, and by some miracle he’d gotten him back, and he was never, ever going to take that for granted.

The sex was pretty damned great too, beard burn around his asshole aside.

But so were the mornings spent eating breakfast together on the porch swing, watching the sun rise. Sunday afternoon naps curled around each other on the couch with Fart Breath at their feet, Catcula on his hip and Purrzilla in his arms. Late night conversations ending in laughter and kisses. Runs through the woods, side by side with someone who loved to love him, and always had. 

And now it was Christmas, and he got to spend it not only with that man he loved just as much, for just as long, but his two best friends in the world as well.

Not too shabby for a scrawny, sick kid born in Brooklyn.

***

Christmas morning dawned clear and bright, and after Sam screamed for ten minutes about Catcula’s latest present and yet another ruined pair of sneakers, they feasted on a breakfast of French toast, fried potatoes, scrambled eggs, maple bacon, fresh fruit and coffee. Once the dishes were washed and put away, they settled down to open presents. Steve and Bucky had already exchanged gifts privately, so this was more for Sam and Nat.

Sam gifted Steve with a beautiful set of paints and colored pencils, and Natasha gave Steve three of the most luxurious cashmere sweaters Steve ever felt, along with a set of gourmet cooking knives. Sam’s gift to Bucky was a hardcover set of the entire Discworld series by Terry Pratchett, which Bucky crowed over, and Natasha’s was a perfectly designed, flesh colored, silicon sleeve he could easily slip over his arm, “So you don’t always have to cover it up,” according to her.

“Oh man, this is…this is...Wow,” Sam said when he opened his present from Steve and Bucky. His gift was one they both worked on, a large, slim wooden case of cherrywood, which Bucky built himself and Steve finished by painting a falcon midflight embracing a shield.

“It’s for your shield,” Steve told him, as if it weren’t obvious.

“You made this?” Sam asked.

“We both did. Do you like it?” Steve wanted to know, while Bucky carefully watched Natasha unwrap her gift.

“It’s awesome. Thank you so much,” Sam gushed. It was good look on him.

Natasha smiled softly at the delicate gold chain with a single pearl her own handmade box, with a painted swan on the cover, revealed. But she had always been the smartest one out of all of them, and quickly discovered the small, hidden panel Bucky integrated into the base, a question in her eyes as she stared at the piece of paper it contained with a phone number scrawled on it.

“If you call now, it’ll be about eight o’clock where they are,” Bucky smiled gently, with a glance at the time.

“Who, Bucky?” she asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“That’s not for me to say,” Bucky shook his head just once. “But they gave me permission to tell you they’d like to talk to you, if you’re willing.” He leaned forward, reaching out to rest a hand on her knee. “It’s OK, I promise you. But you’re definitely going to want to call that number though, and you should probably be alone when you do. The two of you have a lot of catching up to do.”

Natasha was on her feet, piece of paper in one hand, phone in the other, heading toward her room by the time Bucky finished speaking.

“Is she going to be alright?” Sam asked.

“She should be,” Bucky was staring at her closed door.

“And she’s probably going to be a while,” Steve rose from the couch and began to collect the discarded wrapping paper, to the annoyance of Purrzilla and Catcula, who decided the mess was their new playground. “While she’s doing that, we should head on over into Salem. They really go to town with all the Christmas decorations, and you’re not going to want to miss that.”

“Yeah, OK,” Sam agreed, rising to help with the clean-up.

“Do you know what that’s about?” Sam asked as they stood on the front steps, waiting for Bucky who was inside getting Fart Breath ready for a ride in their truck.

“I do,” Steve nodded. Bucky eventually shared things with him Steve now knew he shared with no one but Rebecca. Those had been some hard nights, with tears for them both, the cruelty Bucky endured, the endless torture and things he’d been forced to do, either to simply survive, or after his escape to ensure his continued safety. He also shared some of the very few good things to come out of it all, and this was one of them. But it wasn’t his secret to tell, and he wasn’t going to violate the trust Bucky bestowed on him when he shared it. That decision ultimately belonged to Natasha, but Steve agreed with Bucky in thinking it would be good for everyone involved. “Now let’s get into the truck. I think Chicken Steve is starting to look at you funny again.”

“ _I hate that fucking bird!_ ”

***

Two hours later, when they returned from Salem, paying a quick visit to Bucky’s friends at Regency Woodland, Natasha was standing on the front steps, glaring at the truck.

“Is it just me, or does she look pissed?” Sam asked, peering through the window.

Upon closer inspection, Steve could see Sam was right. Except Natasha didn’t just look pissed, she looked absolutely furious, her eyes blazing, hands clenched into fists at her side. Almost as if she was a thirteen-year-old girl about to throw a temper tantrum as she stomped toward the truck.

“You gave _her_ the earrings instead of me?” she practically shrieked as soon as Bucky exited the cab. Instead of stepping back like both Steve and Sam, he smiled at her, and Steve found himself wondering how Bucky’s balls weren’t attempting to crawl up into his body the way his own were.

“I did,” he nodded, which only deepened Natasha’s scowl. “Do you want to know why?”

“Obviously,” Natasha crossed her arms and actually started tapping her foot.

“Our sister took everything that happened to her, survived it somehow, burying it deep inside, and turned herself into something sharp and bright, like a diamond or a ruby.” Bucky lowered his head so they were face to face and eye to eye.

“But you Natalia, you’re neither of those things. Both of you are treasures, but you’re a pearl, you always were. And pearls don’t need to reflect anyone else’s light. They glow, all on their own, and only grow more beautiful over time. That’s why I gave you the necklace instead of the earrings. Because you glow, you always have, even when you didn’t know it.” 

At Bucky’s words, Natasha’s expression transformed from one of anger to one of softness, her eyes growing wide, her lower lip trembling. A miracle, Steve couldn’t help but think, with a bit of pain yes, but definitely worth it in the end.

“Do you really mean that?” she whispered.

“Have I ever lied to you?” Bucky asked. In response, she pulled him into her arms, pressing her face into his chest.

“I never knew I had a big brother before today,” she murmured against his shoulder.

“That’s funny, because I think I’ve always thought of you as my baby sister,” Bucky kissed the top of her head.

“She’s not the only pearl, is she?” Sam asked quietly, as he watched the two of them.

“No, she’s not,” Steve shook his head, his own heart glowing. “And Bucky always loved having sisters, and I know he misses being a brother. It’ll be good for the both of them.”

“And you too,” Sam grinned.

“And me too,” Steve agreed.

“All right fine, I forgive you then,” Nat was saying when they turned their attention back to them. “But that means _I’m_ the one who gets to walk you down the aisle instead of her.”

“Of course,” Bucky said.

“You did ask him, right?” Natasha stepped back to look up at Bucky’s face.

“I didn’t even get the chance,” Bucky scowled. “The sonuvabitch asked me first.”

That was the Christmas gift they exchanged. The previous night, after everyone had gone to sleep, Steve pulled the small pouch from his pocket that had been in the box Becca left for him, with his mother’s wedding ring inside, getting down on one knee and asking Bucky to marry him. After Bucky finished cursing him out for ruining his surprise, he said yes, and they exchanged rings. Around Steve’s throat was a gold chain from which hung Winifred’s wedding and engagement rings, and around Bucky’s was a platinum one from which hung Sarah’s. A legacy of their mothers’ love, tenderly preserved and carefully handed down from Bucky’s youngest sister, who was no longer with them, but made sure both the brothers she once, and still loved, got the happy ending they deserved. A gift from the past that carried with it the promise of tomorrow and all the days left to come.

“Wait a minute, what?” Sam blurted once he realized what had just been said.

“How do you feel about being my best man?” Steve could only grin at him.

“I swear to god! Nobody tells me anything anymore!”

***

_This is the first thing it knows:_

It is no longer an it, it never was. It was always a he, and has always been so, no matter how hard others tried to take that knowledge away from him.

_This is the second thing he knows:_

He has a name. Sometimes people call him Jared, sometimes JB, but in his heart and to those who love him most, he is and will always be Bucky.

_This is the third thing he knows:_

He was a weapon once, but he never will be again. Now he is just a man with rainbow colored streaks in his long hair, a house in Salem where he lives with his chickens, his two cats, a dog with the stinkiest breath in the world, a small garden, a woodworking shop, and the man he has always loved and is going to marry. If he is lucky, and continues his studies, one day he will be a physical therapist who works with the elderly. But no matter what he ends up doing, he will always love the man he has waited over eighty years to call his husband.

_This is the fourth thing he knows:_

He had three baby sisters once, who he loved with all his heart, but lost to time. Now he has two new ones, one shiny and bright, the other a pearl. He is the brother neither knew they needed, and they love him back, just as fiercely as he loves them.

_This is the last thing he knows:_

After fifty-five years of torture and abuse, and a long road to recovery after that, he is finally free. It is a gift and a miracle he will never take for granted.

And that freedom means that James Buchanan Barnes can finally love Steven Grant Rogers with all his heart, without restriction or shame.

If he was meant for anything, it was this, and something he will happily do for the rest of his very long life.

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have reached the end of the line for Bucky and Steve in From Grit to Pearl, with their happy ending really just beginning as they walk off into the sunset. If you made it this far, I can’t thank you enough and hope you enjoyed the journey. 
> 
> As always, I have to once again thank my AMAZING beta, Merry_rf. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it a million times, Merry_rf is the best beta one could possibly work with, and I’m the luckiest writer in the world to have them in my corner. During the writing of Pearl, they helped me plot a murder, adjust drug dosages so they were more realistic, and pointed out errors in my screwy timeline, while also catching my grammar mistakes, comma abuse and typos. They are very dear to my heart and one of the best things that have come out of me joining the Stucky fandom, and I am forever grateful we’re now friends. 
> 
> I also want to thank each and every one of you who took a chance on this story. It’s no secret I write long fics, VERY LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNG ones, and yet you still decided to give this story a try. There were so many familiar faces, as well as new ones, and some of you were gracious and generous enough to comment on each and every chapter. It left me feeling both humbled and amazed, a bright spot when I desperately needed one, especially with the year we’ve been having, and I can’t begin to express how grateful I was for all your support and encouragement. All comments, kudos and bookmarks are greatly appreciated (and there’s a re-bloggable post [here](https://bluesimplicity73.tumblr.com/post/640421994881581056/from-grit-to-pearl-bluesimplicity-captain) if you’re so inclined), but even if you didn’t comment and just lurked, I just wanted to again say thank you for reading this story. 
> 
> To anyone who may be curious and isn’t tired of my blathering by now, I have another completed story in the pipeline. It’s a soulmate fic (I love the soulmate trope about as much as I love recovery fics) where Steve and the Avengers aren’t superheroes, but werewolves instead, and Bucky is Steve’s human mate. Steve, being Steve, is about as bad at courting as you would expect, and in his first move anonymously leaves a watermelon on Bucky’s doorstep. (He also crashes into a lamppost, is attacked by squirrels, and gets shit on by a pigeon, and that’s only in the first week.) Bucky’s just wondering how the hell is this his life. It’s silly, fluffy and fun, and I’m currently working on trying to get it into shape. If that’s something you think you might enjoy, I’ll hopefully start posting it in a couple of months. 
> 
> The last thing I want to say is that no matter where you are in the world, I hope you are healthy, safe and sound. Each and every one of you is a pearl, and deserves to be treasured just as much as Bucky and Steve treasure this second chance they’ve been given. 
> 
> Until next time…  
> 


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